Scots and Latino 6 ebook Bundle (EBOOK)

LION OF CALEDONIA
When a guarded heiress and an untamed adventurer collide in the Scottish Highlands, secrets, betrayal, and blazing desire threaten to consume everything in their path.

LORD OF THE ISLES
He’s a reclusive laird with nothing left to give. She’s the sunshine who storms his castle—and refuses to leave without saving the man buried inside the beast.

LAIRD OF THE HIGHLANDS
A battle over a haunted castle pits a brooding laird against a passionate dreamer—until the fight turns into a love neither of them expected.

KNIGHT IN COWBOY BOOTS
Neither believes in love, but when a high-stakes deal turns personal, a cowboy billionaire and a stubborn hotel heiress discover the one thing neither of them can walk away from: each other.

KNIGHT IN BLACK LEATHER
She believes in destiny. He’s sworn off love. But when a guarded restaurateur meets a fearless dreamer, even the darkest past can’t stop passion from breaking through.

KNIGHT IN TATTOOED ARMOR
A grumpy ex-SEAL hiding on a private island meets a spoiled heiress on a mission—and their fiery clash turns into something much deeper than either of them planned.

She needed this job.

Jennet Fellowes stared across the imposing desk to the empty leather chair. Behind the chair stood a series of soaring shelves, stuffed haphazardly with hundreds of books. Leather-lined classics competed with tattered paperbacks for space. At any other time, she’d have been delighted to spend hours combing through the collection and finding new treasures.

This is not the time to get distracted, Jen.

No. It wasn’t, was it? She needed to concentrate on getting the job. Not on a bunch of books.

“You must,” her grandfather whispered in her memory. “You’re the only one who can.”

She hadn’t argued with him. 

She never argued with anyone. 

And, in this case, he was right.

There was no use arguing there was anybody else to do this. The rest of the cousins were too important and well known. Her grandfather had tried his best, but failed. More importantly, none of them had the talent essential for getting this particular job.

Getting the job meant getting access to this outrageous mansion stuck in the-middle-of-nowhere Scotland. Getting access meant gaining time. Time to find what she’d come for.

The ring.

Her grandfather’s most desired possession. A possession he lost years ago. She needed to find the ring. Then, her grandfather would die in peace. And finally, at last, she would have paid him back.

So she needed to get this job.

The door behind her slammed open. Jen stiffened her spine and forced herself to take a deep breath in and out. She couldn’t afford to lose her composure, much less slide into one of her attacks.

“Ms. Douglas.”

A jolt ran through her at the name. The name she’d left behind.

The impact of his voice from behind slid inside her head and jolted her once more. She hadn’t expected a voice like his. Not rich and sensual. From the extensive research she’d done on this man, she’d expected loud and bombastic. Arriving at this travesty of a house hadn’t changed her opinion. 

Only a monstrous ego would want such a place.

Another breath in. Another out.

His voice might surprise, but she’d done her homework. She read about Cameron Steward’s various exploits and every one of his reviews. She scanned the photographs of this man on the web—thousands of them. The dashing war reporter, ladies’ man, and lion of literature had drawn press attention for years. His voice may not meet her expectations, but she’d girded herself for the physical punch of him for one whole week.

The urge to swing around and stare became almost overwhelming.

But he moved before she slipped into temptation. He walked past her, heading toward the desk.

She stifled a gasp.

He was far bigger than she’d surmised from the web images. The black wool jumper he wore did nothing to disguise the broadness of his shoulders. The black jeans didn’t diminish the strength of his thighs; rather, they highlighted their power as he prowled around the massive oak desk.

Jen didn’t like big anything. Big houses. Big families. Big drama.

And she especially didn’t like big men.

He turned and she nearly gasped again.

The photos portrayed him all wrong. The articles and interviews missed the true story. They’d shown him smiling and laughing. They’d portrayed a man who lived for the thrill and did everything on a lark.

The man standing behind the desk had the eyes of a predator.

Those eyes narrowed. “Ye are Ms. Douglas, correct?”

With a start, she realized she’d been sitting there like a mute idiot. “Yes, yes,” she blurted, inwardly cringing at how desperate she sounded.

His tawny brows rose as if confirming her idiot status. The color of his brows matched the rough shadow of whiskers on his hard jaw, but they were a sharp deviation from the light amber hair falling past his ears in a messy jumble. “You’re sure?”

The tease in his voice was impossible to miss. The contrast to his predator eyes made her even more confused. Jen wasn’t good with teasing and not good with men. Her confusion only made the situation worse. The combination of the three flustered her to the point her breath stuck in her throat.

Not good. Not good at all.

She was already botching this interview. Suffering an attack would ruin any chance she had.

“Hmm.” His hand shifted across the clutter of papers on his grand desk while his steady gaze never left her face.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The long years of practice rescued her.

“I’m sure,” she said, pitching her voice low so she saved on air. “I’m Jennet Douglas and I’m here for the job of being your transcriber.”

“Hmm.” His hand kept sweeping back and forth, those eyes of his piercing into her. The energy he exuded, his masculine vitality, filled the large library, making her feel as if she experienced tunnel vision and the only thing she could focus on was him.

A flutter of instinct swished through her. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Lethal. He was lethal.

Her breath, her instinct, her heart all yelled at her.

Leave.

But she couldn’t. The ring and her obligation stood in the way. And more than anything, her grandfather. She couldn’t walk away from this man and his monstrous mansion. Her predicament made the air in her throat knot and then gasp in a clear sign of distress.

He stiffened, and the tawny brows dropped into a ferocious frown. “What’s wrong?”

This interview was going horribly wrong and she needed to get herself refocused.

“You must, Jennet,” her grandfather whispered in her memories once more. “The ring means everything to me.”

“Nothing, sir.” Knotting her fingers in her lap, she forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were a mix of dark colors she couldn’t define. Certainly not black, but not brown either.

“Nothing?” He jerked the stately leather chair out from behind the desk and slammed his body into it, as if compelling himself to continue with this odd exchange. “Do ye have a problem with your breathing?”

The question surprised her. Not the words themselves because questions about her breathing weren’t uncommon. The surprise came from the sliver of compassion running through them. She wasn’t used to compassion. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Stop calling me sir.” His frown deepened. “There’ll be none of that around here.”

“Yes, s…” She slithered to a stop.

A glimmer of humor lit in his odd eyes. The frown eased. “Call me Cam.”

She didn’t want to speak his first name. Just as she didn’t want him to speak hers. First names smacked of potential friendship. She wanted none of that. She was here to get the job and do a job. The last thing she wanted was to feel any guilt about what she planned to take from this man. “I think it would be better to keep things businesslike.”

“Do ye?” One brow rose once more. “Why?”

“It’s more professional.”

“Professional.” The word hung in the air. He edged it with wry whimsy, rolling the vowels in his rich voice as if he testing it for clarity.

“Yes.” Jen’s hands tightened until her nails cut into her skin. She was no good at this kind of thing: talking, chatting, interviewing. The desperate need to jump up and run out the door swept through her again. The only thing she wanted to do was run and run and run back to her place. The placid and peaceful place her grandfather’s summons yanked her from one week ago.

“Hmm.” His hand pawed through the mound of papers once more and much to her relief, his gaze dropped from her face. Silence, the wretched silence she couldn’t ever seem to fill with easy chatter or witty words, lay like a heavy woolen blanket between them.

“Ye come highly recommended.” His abrupt pronouncement split through the room.

Jen jumped in her seat and swallowed a squeak, like a mouse in front of a big, growling cat.

His lips tightened. “Are ye a nervous woman?”

“No, sir.” As soon as the title came out of her mouth, she winced.

“If not nervous, then perhaps unwilling to take concise directions.” His tone went sharp, all humor gone.

Two years ago, this would have been the end. The old Jennet would have given up, fled in defeat, and disappointed every member of her family. For two years, though, she’d been nurturing herself, growing confidence, finding her own way.

The new and fragile confidence shot down her spine, making her straighten in the hard antique chair. “I can take directions.”

Cameron Steward stared at her from across the vast expanse of his desk. The quiet tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock standing beside the enormous pit of a marbled fireplace was the only sound filling the silence. Until another one replaced it.

“Hmm.”

The sound was apparently a signature for him and she couldn’t help but think it resembled the deep purr of a giant cat. There was something silky and seductive to it, while underneath rolled the potential of a quick strike.

He coiled out of his chair, a slinky glide that startled her. Even though the movement was smooth and subtle, the heft of his big body and the intensity of his presence shot through her.

Lethal.

The man stalked over to another bookcase, this one filled with an assortment of scary African masks and other memorabilia. His hands swung around, clasping behind his back. “The work is usually in the morning.”

Her forehead creased. Transcription could be done at any time of day and she worked best at night. Daytime meant being outside. Why did he insist on what time the work was done if all that mattered was that it got completed?

You need this job, Jen.

“That’s fine.” Her knotted hands loosened. When she transcribed didn’t matter. She’d only be here for as long as it took to find the ring. If she got lucky, that would amount to only a few days.

Mr. Steward kept looking at his memorabilia. “I believe it was made clear the position requires ye to live here.”

Here was where she needed to be. “Yes. That’s fine, too.”

“There isn’t a lot of social activity in the area.” His wide shoulders curved into his neck before relaxing as if he’d shaken off any hesitancy about the subject.

“I have no problem with that.” Her non-interest in the social scene had been a huge issue with her family. Yet now, they could only be relieved Jennet fit into this role in so many ways. “I prefer it, actually.”

“Really?” The shoulders moved again, this time indicating disbelief. The man used his body like a fine-tuned communication device.

“Yes, really.” Her hands loosened further and she allowed herself a quick slide down her wool skirt to sweep away any lingering perspiration.

She was gaining ground in this interview. A thrill of accomplishment ran through her.

“The book will be long and once I start, I won’t stop.” The clasp of his hands compressed, making his knuckles white. “I expect it will take at least four months to complete.”

She’d be long gone before then. “That works for me.”

Swinging around, his movement was fluid with animal grace. “An agreeable little thing, aren’t ye?”

Condescension layered his words, along with the latent humor. Jen didn’t mind the humor, but she did mind the arrogance. Not arguing didn’t mean she couldn’t defend herself. Growing up among the boisterous Fellowes family, she’d learned. “I wouldn’t be here if the terms weren’t agreeable to me.”

Her soft voice held a hint of steel.

An acknowledgment of the hint flickered in his eyes. This man was smart. And savvy. She’d figured out the first from her research about him. The second realization hit her now and made her shiver. Her grandfather had been thorough in this setup, making sure nothing would be tied to the Fellowes name, but she still needed to find the ring and escape, all under this man’s keen gaze.

She had no choice, although she now realized how tricky this would be.

“Well.” He paced back to the desk and grabbed one paper and a pen off the mess. “I guess we have a deal, Jen—”

He stopped with a dramatic pause, the curl of his mouth telling her this was another tease, another test.

“Again, I’d prefer to keep this professional. Ms. Douglas will be fine.” She didn’t think standing firm in this area would risk her getting the job. The importance of keeping her distance made this worth the slight risk.

His mouth went from a curl to a quirk. “I guess that will work, if ye insist.”

Jen took in a deep breath. “I insist.”

“Hmm.” His eyes sparked with humor, as if her puny attempts at setting some of her own rules amused him. “All right.” Another dramatic pause. “Ms. Douglas it will be.”

A bang of thrilled victory raced around in her stomach, along with trepidation.

She’d got the job. Just like that. She’d expected a long, drawn-out interview. Lots of lengthy questions, maybe a test of her skills. Apparently, however, this man made his decisions in a flash.

Cameron Steward smiled for the first time. Something like complete terror tumbled right into the mix of triumph and trepidation coursing through her. The smile creased his cheeks into long dimples and lit his dark eyes. His teeth gleamed in white perfection, only adding to the menace of his appeal.

Yes, very, very lethal.

“Sign here.” He moved toward her, pen and paper in hand, and she forced herself to keep still.

The paper landed on the edge of his massive desk and the pen was thrust in her face. This time, she couldn’t help her timid withdrawal.

“Sorry.” The pen, held in his big hand, drew back too. “I thought we had a deal.”

“We do.” Before he retreated farther, she pushed herself to pluck the odd pen away from him.

Leaning over, she tried to make herself read the short paragraph. There was something about time off. Her pay. Her room and board. Yet, the details blurred because he stood so near. His heat reached out, warming her one side, making the other side of her feel cold. The smell of him wrapped around her too. A crisp, minty scent with something underneath, a scent that reminded her of deep forests and dark seas.

“The terms are the same as I listed with the job agency.” His voice came from above her and she felt as if he encircled her with his heat and scent and sound. “Is there something wrong with any of them?”

“No.” What did the terms matter? She’d be gone before her first pay packet. Scribbling her fake name on the paper, she slid the pen on the desk and edged back into her seat.

Silence came from behind her chair. 

Then, the man moved again in his unique prowl, walking past her to stand behind his desk once more. His finger punched several buttons on the utilitarian office phone. Nothing happened. An irritated growl rumbled from his throat as he punched more buttons.

The phone beeped and then, went silent.

“Baw!” The roar erupted from his mouth, a long, drawn-out cry that thundered through the room. “Mrs. Rivers!”

Before his last vowel rang its peal over the books and memorabilia and Jen, the same woman who’d ushered her into the house not one hour ago, appeared at the open library door. “Mr. Steward?”

She looked completely unfazed at the noise her employer had made, as if this was a daily occurrence.

Was the place filled with nutters?

Finding the ring and getting away from this madhouse couldn’t happen soon enough for Jen’s peace of mind.

“Ye will show Ms. Douglas to her room.” The rumble of disgust at the intransigence of his phone lingered in his voice. “Give her a wee bit of a tour as well. I’ll see ye at eight a.m. sharp, Ms. Douglas.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jen’s words made her new employer frown again. But before he could rebut her use of a title he’d rejected, the other woman intervened with her own assent.

“Yes, Mr. Steward.” The older woman beckoned to her, and with dizzy relief to be out of his presence, she clutched her purse and coat, and followed Mrs. Rivers out the door into the vast hall.

“Well, he’s found another one, I see. You’re younger than the others.” The woman wore a serviceable grey jumper matched with a darker-grey skirt. Her silver hair was cut short, highlighting the myriad wrinkles circling her vacant blue eyes. “You can call me Mrs. Rivers.”

“Um.” Another one? Had Mr. Steward run through a whole slew of transcribers before her? Not that she cared; she wasn’t here to keep a job. Yet, the way the woman looked her over gave her the willies. A cold draft of air drifted along the intricately-designed parquet floor, sending a shiver up her legs. She tried to distract herself by focusing on the hallway the woman led her into.

The chill in her gut intensified.

The great hall of this massive mansion should have been glorious. The arched ceiling soared above their heads, held up by elegant marble columns. From where she stood, Jen counted four magnificent stone fireplaces. Panels of oak lined the walls, interspersed with ancient suits of armor and old medieval shields and huge threatening pikes. Dotting the hall were a series of velveteen sofas and elaborately carved chairs and tables. An immense Steinway grand piano stood in solitary splendor at the end of the hall.

The lot of it gave the impression that it all might crumble into dust if a crisp Scottish wind ran through the room.

“You’ll be wanting to gather your luggage.” Mrs. Rivers stuck her hands in her pockets, making it clear she wouldn’t be helping.

Jen obediently glanced around and spotted her one small suitcase nudged into a corner by the double front doors. Her grandfather had been so sure she’d get this job, she decided to pack and bring everything she needed for the few days she was here. Why go to the hassle and expense to take the train all the way back to London?

“Go on.” The older woman gave her an imperious look. “I’ve got things to do.”

Shuffling to her luggage, she gave herself a wry grimace. She’d been so focused on the coming interview when she arrived, she’d barely taken in anything. Ushered into the library so quickly, she didn’t have time to take in details of the house or this woman. The only thing she’d had time to do was hand over her case and step into Mr. Steward’s lair.

Now, the reality seeped in. This place was strange and so was the woman.

“Well, come then.” Mrs. Rivers marched off down the long line of dusty Persian rugs. Jen snatched up her luggage and scrambled to keep pace.

“I’m the housekeeper here.” The silver head bobbed in front of her as the words wafted back. “I’ve put you on the third floor so you’ll be away from the noise.”

The noise?

Like the roar of her new employer?

Clutching her coat and purse, she dragged her case behind. The rollers kept getting stuck on the tassels of the rugs and she wondered if tugging some fringe off one of these antiques might lead to her immediate dismissal.

But no. Clearly, Mrs. Rivers was not much of a housekeeper. The likelihood of her noticing a missing heirloom, much less a missing tuft, was small.

Good. Fulfilling her grandfather’s wish appeared to be getting easier and easier.

A thick ridge of dust lay on the maple wood of the piano. Each of the statues and suits of armor she passed looked like they needed a good wash. From afar, the velveteen sofas appeared impressive. Up close, she decided if she sat on any of them, she’d be consumed in a cloud of dirt.

“This is the drawing room.” Mrs. Rivers swung two massive oak doors open to another huge room.

Drawing room? Who in this day and age had a drawing room?

At the woman’s impatient wave, she dutifully stuck her head in. The walls were covered in a deep-green tapestry, sporting colorful birds and a weave of plants. Floor-length satin curtains draped to the floor, muting the light falling on a mishmash of antique tables and bookcases—all as dusty as their counterparts in the great hall. Above a black marble fireplace hung a huge painting of a man, dressed in 19th-century clothes, surrounded by a bevy of dogs.

Wanting to be cordial and realizing she hadn’t said a word since she’d left the library, Jen plastered on an inquiring smile. “Who’s the man in the painting?”

“How would I know?” The housekeeper gave her another dull look before she turned from the room and went down another hallway.

“Oookay,” she muttered under her breath as she continued to follow behind. They passed through a dining room sporting an enormous, grimy glass chandelier, into another hall featuring a grand limestone staircase covered with a worn, ruby-red runner.

“You’ll want to stay away from the second floor.” Mrs. Rivers waved a wrinkled hand to the stairs winding to the left. “That’s for family.”

Family? She frowned. Her research spoke of a dead wife in her new employer’s past, but that had been years ago.

“You’ll want to stick to the right.” Another wave of the wrinkled hand. “Those stairs lead to the third floor.”

She glanced at the woman. A pursed mouth, blank eyes, and hands folded firmly in front of her told Jen the tour was over. “I’ll just go up then.”

“Yours is the first door on the right.” Mrs. Rivers turned and walked off down the dusty hall and into the bowels of the house.

“I couldn’t feel more welcome,” she said to the empty room before yanking her suitcase up one step after another. By the time she reached the third floor, the luggage felt like a load of lead. She hadn’t counted, but she’d bet there’d been more than a hundred steps.

“Why did you pack so much, silly fool?”

Her words echoed down the long, long hallway. At the end of the corridor, a round window spilled the last of the misty mid-March sun onto another dusty rug. A half-dozen doors ran along each side of the rug, cutting neat oak planks into the yellowed wallpaper.

Why would a man own such a huge home and not take care of the place? From what she’d read about Cameron Steward’s life in the past eight years, he’d made himself filthy rich selling his line of thrillers. 

Why hadn’t he spent any money on upkeep?

Jen shook off her thoughts and walked to the first door on the right. Pushing it open, she stepped into a surprisingly clean suite. On the left stood a door to a compact bathroom. Straight across was a cozy little nook sporting a fat armchair in front of roaring fire. A mini-kitchen ran along the wall beyond the fireplace, and to the right was a cozy-looking bed with a bright-blue comforter and a jumble of pristine white pillows.

“Not bad.” She could stand to live here for a few days.

The roaring fire and made-up bed told her the job had been hers before she even entered the mansion. There hadn’t been a string of other applicants waiting in the wings that she’d detected. Her concern had been for nothing.

“See? As usual, you got yourself into a stew for no reason.”

Her fragile confidence bloomed once more.

Within a couple of minutes, she unpacked an assortment of jumpers and pants into the old-fashioned armoire. The kitchen fridge yielded a frozen casserole filled with shredded chicken, potatoes, and mushrooms. The microwave buzzed and she settled into the armchair to eat her dinner.

The flames of the fire crackled into a slow simmer and her eyelids grew heavy. It had been a long week. First, the summons from her cousin Edward. Away from her position at the nursery. Away from the small cottage she’d decorated to suit her own inclinations. 

Away from the serene life she’d created.

After came the meeting with her deathly-ill grandfather in his hospital room. Her acceptance of the task before her. The planning, the packing, the trip to Scotland using the train instead of her trusty Volkswagen hatchback to avoid any detection after she left this place.

She needed to get a good night’s sleep.

After a quick wash and slipping on her favorite old flannel nightgown, she slid into the cool sheets and sighed with relief.

She’d done it. She’d gotten the job.

The rest should be easy. Transcribing would be no problem. She’d merely put on her headphones and type away. Once she got her daily allotment of work completed, she’d have all the time in the world to find the ring.

Within a few days, her grandfather would be satisfied.

Within a few days, she’d be back in her pleasant life.

Within a few days, this would seem like a bad dream.

Her eyes fluttered shut, the whistling wind and the crackle of the remaining fire the last things she remembered…

A low cry leached into her dreams, making her twist in her bed.

The cry came again, louder and more piercing. She flopped on her other side, pulling the pillow closer.

Another cry, this one too high-pitched and shrill to ignore.

Her eyes popped open.

The cry came once more, filled with a fierce mix of anger and fear.

She lurched up. The fire had died down to ash, and the small window by the bathroom scattered the muted moonlight on the hand-knotted rug covering the floor of the suite.

Another cry. 

Her heart pounded in response. Part anxiety and part compassion. A hurt flowed through her for this poor person. Who was in such misery they’d cry like that? Where were they?

She scooted to the edge of the bed and stepped on the cold wooden floor. Shivering, she tiptoed to the door. She rattled the old knob. Opening a small crack, she peeked out.

The hallway held no ghostly apparitions or haunting phantoms. Silent and shadowed, it gave nothing away.

Jen waited, waited, waited.

Only the harsh whip of the wind outside made any noise.

Only the faint light of the moon streaked over one side of the hall.

After several minutes, she pulled herself back into her cozy den and closed the door. The old clock standing on the mantle chimed a low clang only once.

So much for a good night’s sleep. She was wide awake.

With a snort, she walked to the window and peered out.

The full moon fought with the misty clouds, managing to light the extensive grounds with only a hazy gloom. The gardens rolled down to the loch where the moonlight flickered over the roiling water. A wicked March wind thrashed the bare tree limbs to and fro.

Jen took in a deep breath.

He stood at the edge of the water, his broad back already familiar to her. His hands fisted at his side as if he argued with the wild waves. The way he held himself, tight and taut, made her heart hurt.

For the second time tonight.

She always noticed the colors first.

The cool, misty gray of the air and the sea. The muted sunlight throwing a soft glow over the line of low buildings hugging harbors and roads. The touches of bright color in the paint of a home, or a flash of a bold tartan, surprising the eye and begging to be caught in the lens.

Her profession was about color. Color and contrast and how both combined together to set a mood. Scotland always set a mood from the moment she put her feet on its shores. A comforting, timeless sort of mood.

This time, though, this time there was something off.

“Well, if it ain’t Miss Lilly Graham come home to see her da again, eh?” The old sailor smiled, showing a wide mouthful of yellowing teeth. He edged his boat by the dock, engine humming.

“Hello, Mr. Hume. How are things going?” Jumping into the compact Orkney longboat, Lilly plopped her duffle bag on the co-pilot’s chair and carefully placed her camera case on top of it. “Dad told me you’d be coming to get me. What happened to the ferry?”

“Och.” He grunted before turning to the wheel and swinging it around. “There’s no more service to Somairie.”

“No?” She settled into a padded seat running along the stern. “Why not?”

“Not enough demand.” The old man fiddled with the controls and the boat surged out of Oban's harbor, rolling past the cluster of pleasure craft, sailboats, and one large cruiser. “When the new lord decided to shut down the golf course, there weren’t enough tourists to make it worthwhile for the ferry.”

“Dad said something about that.” She tugged the sides of her windbreaker together. Even though it was the first of August, there was a bite in the air out here on the water.

“He’d be the one to know.” Mr. Hume yanked on his leather sailor hat until she could barely see his eyes. “Your da sure loves to golf.”

“True.” She’d touched base with her father right before she left for India a month ago, and he hadn’t sounded happy. Except she’d been too excited about where she was headed to pay enough attention.

A slither of familiar guilt shifted inside her before she brushed it away.

The assignment had been long and exhausting, yet she got amazing photos of elephants and cobras. Of market days filled with vibrant color and movement. Of the beauty of the land with its bold rivers and the vivid greens of the surrounding landscape.

The familiar urge to start taking photos shot through her.

Lilly swung her gaze across the water and her fingers immediately twitched for her camera. The ruins of a castle clung to the point of the peninsula, and there was a flock of seagulls weaving in the wind above. Scotland wasn’t anything like India, but she still saw the possibilities, still wanted to capture everything in a photograph for other eyes to notice and appreciate.

“Your da tells me you’ve been in India.” The sailor grimaced. “Can’t say I would want to go there.”

“It’s beautiful.” She kept herself from gushing because she’d learned most people didn’t understand her enthusiasm for the exotic.

“Guess ye have to go where you’re sent.” He turned the boat to the right, past the castle and around the bend of the land into the open sea.

The India assignment was from a small travel magazine and hadn’t covered her expenses. But it had been worth it to spend her own money. The photos she recently emailed to the agent she’d been targeting for years held quite a bit of promise. By the time she finished her annual monthly visit with her dad, she’d hopefully have good news waiting back in New York. Mr. Hume wouldn’t be interested in that, though. Like most of her father’s friends, his focus was on his home. “Dad did mention he wouldn’t be playing much golf.”

“The new lord.” Angus Hume made a disgusted sound deep in his throat.

She hid her amusement by staring at the receding town of Oban. The fact that there was still some man being called a lord in this day and age—seriously? She stifled a wry chuckle.

“He ain’t nothing like his da, I’ll tell ye that.”

“No?” She nudged her hips deeper into the seat, ready for a story. Mr. Hume was known on the island as the best gossip and raconteur. If she was going to get the gist of what was troubling her dad, no better person could give it to her. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We had high hopes.” He shot her a look from his gimlet eyes. “When old Malcolm died, we thought his son would be the ticket to getting Somairie and the surrounding islands back on track.”

“I thought you all loved Malcolm McPherson.” 

She’d met the man many times. Since the age of six, she’d come with her dad to his family’s summer cottage on Somairie. The island stood in the middle of a whole swirl of other smaller islands—all owned by the McPhersons for as long as anyone could remember. The first male of the line always inherited the islands, along with the businesses tied to them: the fishing licenses for vast stretches of the sea; the tracts of land where the Highland cattle grazed; the two creameries that processed the signature McPherson cheese; the three B&Bs sprinkled on the largest of the islands that did a brisk trade in the summer.

But more than anything else, the eldest son inherited the mythical title that had been passed down for generations.

Lord of the Isles.

When she was a kid, she thought of the title and the castle and the stories surrounding the McPhersons as a romantic fairy tale come to life. Then, at the age of ten, she met Iain McPherson, the only son. Just once. Except that one time had been enough to shatter any dreams of fairy tales and princes.

“We did love Malcolm. Still mourn his loss.” The wheel swung back and forth as the old sailor navigated the waves. “He was a good man. Over the last few years, however, he couldn’t keep up with the pace of the change that’s needed to keep the islands viable.”

“His son could, though?” She drew her attention off the surroundings to focus on the grim line of the man’s jaw. She had her own memories of Iain McPherson, yet she’d never shared them with anyone. And as the stories of his bravery grew legendary with the villagers, she was glad she hadn’t said a word.

Who wanted to bash their opinion against a wall of heroism?

“Apparently not.” The sailor’s gnarled hands tightened on the rim of steel wheel. “He’s been a wee bit of a disappointment.”

Wee wouldn’t be the correct description, she’d guess. Not by the way Mr. Hume said the word.

“We gave him some space when he came home to bury his da.” The old man’s voice rose when the sounds of the sea and wind escalated as they puttered out of the protection of the harbor. “Except that was months ago. Months and months.”

About ten months ago, if her memory served. She’d heard the news of the old lord’s death on her monthly call with her father, right before she took off to get shots of Oktoberfest in Munich. He’d sounded resigned about the passing, but also excited about the opportunities for the island with a new leader.

“The lad hasn’t been seen for months,” the old sailor mumbled, clear distress in his voice.

Her eyebrows rose. Somairie’s inhabitants and the other islanders within the McPherson holdings were a tight community, even if there was always an influx of tourists. The islands stretched for several miles. And like any small town, everyone knew everyone, and no one got away with disappearing for long. “Months?”

“Months.” The old man snorted. “I’m telling ye, it’s the oddest thing. The castle gate is locked all the time, and the only light we see at night is straight at the top of the old tower.”

“Huh?” She stopped and tried to rein in her usual overwhelming curiosity by staring at the ocean waves. The stopping didn’t work. “What does he eat?”

Another snort. “He eats. Much to Mrs. Butler’s displeasure.”

“What?” Confused, she swung back to stare at the old man. 

Mrs. Butler was possibly the nicest, sweetest woman she’d ever met. She ran the only grocery store on the island, and never failed to have cookies waiting for the kids. The old woman called them biscuits, but whatever they were called, they were delicious. Lilly found it nearly impossible to think of Mrs. Butler being angry at anyone.

“He orders his supplies from Glasgow and London.” His voice filled with bewildered disgruntlement. “Can ye imagine?”

Yes. She could imagine the arrogant kid she met long ago as someone who’d turn his nose up at Mrs. Butler’s sturdy, unassuming stock. But the disbelief in Mr. Hume’s voice told her the islanders had still not quite shaken the image of the dashing Royal Marine hero. The boy who’d gone from brave feat to valiant deed, from decorated medals to honorific titles.

The wind rose in intensity as they chugged past the first of the McPherson islands. She let the conversation go. She’d heard enough to understand the lay of the situation and she’d hear the rest from her dad.

A sudden burst of sweet desire to see her dear dad’s face welled inside. 

She sucked in a deep breath of salty air. This wasn’t home. But it was as close to one as she’d ever had.

“There’s Fingal.” The old sailor had to roar the words, because coming around the east side of Somairie, the boat was hit with the full force of the ocean wind.

Fingal, the island’s biggest village, clung to the edge of the island like a needy lover. The two- and three-story houses and stores were painted with bright reds and yellows, deep blacks and greens. A line of fishing boats bobbed in the round harbor. The old, white lighthouse rose on the point, no longer needed, yet still enjoyed by the village children and the tourists who swarmed the island in the summer.

She stood, clinging to the side of the boat. The odd mood she’d picked up in Oban stirred. “Mr. Hume.”

“Eh?” He kept his gaze on the approaching dock.

“Where are the crowds?”

There were always crowds in August. Edinburgh was holding their annual festival and the peak of the summer tourist season guaranteed large groups of tourists all across Scotland and the many islands of the Hebrides.

“No crowds this year.” He swung to glare at her like it was her fault. “I told ye. Things have changed, and someone needs to do something about it.”

The odd feeling grew. Did he mean she needed to do something about it? What could she do? “The fishing boats are all docked.”

The old man humphed as if she’d disappointed him. “Why do ye think I had time to come and get ye, lass?”

She glanced at the town and the harbor. “No fishing?”

“The new lord,” his words went hard again, “ain’t renewing the licenses.”

Without fishing or golfing, this island community would eventually die. Unease slipped into the oddness, making her stomach a bit nauseous. It didn’t really affect her, but her dad loved this place and had buddies here. 

What would he do if Fingal died and Somairie was deserted?

The boat bobbed in the water as it eased next to the longest pier in the harbor. Mr. Hume threw a couple of ropes across to a glum, petulant dock boy. 

“Your dad will be glad to see ye,” the old sailor said as the boat was tied to two stout pilings. “He’ll tell ye the rest of the island news.”

She’d heard quite enough of the island news. Her dad would have more to say about this situation, though, whether she liked it or not. Hefting her bag onto her shoulder, she clutched her camera case and jumped onto the dock. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Ain’t got much else to do,” he grumbled as he swung his attention back to the wheel and instrument panel.

Not knowing what else to say, she paced toward the main street, noting how little action was going on. On her other trips here, this harbor would have been bustling with activity. Now, it was strangely empty. A sad, forlorn mood cast a gloom over her own.

She was suddenly tired, the impact of her long flight from India hitting her all at once.

A good meal and some sleep and she’d be fine. This whole situation couldn’t be as bad as Angus Hume indicated. The old man tended toward the dramatic, she remembered. Every good story needed drama and he was a good enough storyteller to know that.

Walking down the main street, she noted the boarded-up tea shop she’d loved last year. And the empty shops boasting the McPherson tartans and crests. Even Mrs. Butler’s neat, tidy store looked a bit rundown. The windowsills and door needed a fresh coat of red paint, and the windows themselves could use a cleaning.

This was bad.

She felt it in the mood.

A bunch of teenage boys lingered on the last corner of Fingal, sullenly smoking cigarettes and eyeing her. Two of them wore hoodies tightly drawn around their faces and another one sneered at her as she drew close.

Lilly had learned to trust her instincts. Her specialty was in culture and travel and people, still, her career had taken her into a few perilous situations. 

Her instincts went on high alert in a split second. 

She never thought she’d feel afraid on Somairie, yet she was now.

“Ye all go on.” Mrs. Butler stepped onto her stoop, her white hair flying, the brisk wind whipping it into a fluffy cloud on top of her head. “Don’t be making me get my broom to chase ye away.”

The boys threw her a glare before shuffling off past the corner of the store.

“Lilly Graham.” The woman gave her a big smile. “Your da is going to be so happy.”

Fear faded, to be replaced with the ever-present guilt. Last year, she’d planned on staying the entire month, but an excellent assignment pulled her away after a mere two weeks. And the year before, her two half-sisters, Taylor and Ashley, demanded she spend at least a week with them in the Hamptons. Her dad hadn’t complained either time. However, she’d seen the disappointment on his face. This year, she was determined to stay the entire month. 

“It’ll be nice to see him.”

“He’s been talking about nothing else for weeks.” Mrs. Butler waved her hand at the lane behind the one-street town. “Ye go on then, and say hello for me.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Butler.”

“I’ll be seeing ye soon, I’m sure.” A speculative look crossed the old woman’s face. “Lots to discuss.”

Lilly had no idea what she could possibly need to discuss with Mrs. Butler and whatever it was, she didn’t need to deal with it right now. She was dead on her feet, and just wanted to hug her dad.

The lane led over a short ridge and then dipped into a valley. Her father always offered to drive to Fingal to pick her up. But she liked to stretch her legs after long travel. Plus, she enjoyed taking in Somairie, sinking into the peace she found here every single time she visited.

Peace would not be the word she’d choose now.

Even the sky, the Scotland sky that changed from a mellow blue to the brewing dark of a storm in minutes, even the sky didn’t give her a sense of place and peace. It looked dull, a blank color that didn’t make her fingers twitch to pick up her camera at all. The sea’s waves rose in a sluggish beat on the sandy beach and the gulls’ calls seemed muted.

A shiver of unease ran through her.

Spotting her father’s cottage, her pace quickened. Dad would hug her, she’d take a nap, and this odd feeling would disappear.

“Lilly.” Edward Graham appeared in the open door of his house, his face wreathed in a smile, his brown eyes twinkling. He hadn’t aged since the last time she saw him a year ago, and that fact made something inside her settle. “You’re finally here.”

“Dad.” Dropping her duffle, she stepped into his warm embrace and laid her head on his sturdy shoulder. “It’s good to be here.”

“It’s good to have ye home.” His arms tightened.

He always said she was home when she was here, but she’d never felt the attachment. Her life was about dancing with the new, not settling for the familiar. Right now, though, she didn’t want to argue or explain. “I’m tired.”

“Why wouldn’t ye be, coming all the way from India?” He drew away, patting her shoulder before retreating into the interior. “Come on, then. I’ve got a nice little spread, courtesy of Mrs. Butler.”

Grabbing her bag, she ducked her head before it hit the mantle of the door and stepped into the welcoming den her father spent most of his time in. The leather chair sat right by the peat fire, and the side table held his familiar pile of books and wire-rimmed glasses. “I saw Mrs. Butler on my way through Fingal.”

“Did ye?” He bustled into the small kitchen lying past the den.

“Yes.” She pulled the strap of her camera case off her shoulder. “She and Mr. Hume were acting a bit odd. Things have changed.”

He popped his head out from the kitchen door. At the look on her face, he frowned. “Now what did they dump on ye?”

“Neither dumped on me.” She tried to reassure him by fixing a smile on her face. “Mr. Hume just told me some of his stories. And Mrs. Butler was her usual pleasant self.”

Her father sighed. “Both of them are scheming, and I don’t think their plans are good ones.”

“Plans?”

“Why don’t ye take your bags to your room?” His voice grew muffled when he withdrew back into the kitchen. “After ye settle, ye can come down and we’ll have a bite before ye get too tired to eat.”

She obediently climbed the simple wooden steps that led into the narrow hallway sporting four doors. One went into her father’s bedroom and another into the spare he used for storage. Her bedroom lay under the eaves, right by the dinky bathroom. The cream-and-pink quilt on the bed was as familiar as her own face. It had been passed down for generations, and supposedly was hand-crafted by her great-great-grandmother. The rest of the room appeared exactly the same too, nothing having changed since she was here the last time.

Lovingly cared for and waiting for her return.

The peace she craved whenever she came here finally settled over her, driving away the odd twinges. Sighing with relief, she shoved her duffle into the closet. Unpacking could wait. Her camera case slid easily into the notch in the wall where, as a kid, she stored seashells and pretty rocks. Tomorrow, she’d wake early and take some shots of the bay that lay past the edge of her father’s land.

“Got yourself settled?” He beamed at her as she walked down into the cozy den.

“Pretty much.” Looking at the spread, she smiled. “Scones and raspberry jam. My favorite.”

“Cold ham and macaroni pie also.” He placed two steaming cups on the small round table. “Come on. Dig in, and then ye can take a nap.”

The food was good and tasty. A comfortable lull fell between them—a silence she’d loved as a kid, because it was so different from the life she lived with her mother and stepfather.

“So.” Her dad coughed before taking a sip of tea. “I suppose old Angus Hume told ye a few things about the island.”

The peaceful feeling she’d been enjoying wafted away. “Sure.”

“I'd guess he painted a black picture, as he’s used to doing.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say black.” She stared at the last scone and decided against stuffing herself. “Maybe a bit dark.”

“I’m telling ye not to take any note while you’re here, Lil.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at him.

Edward Graham rarely looked serious. He tended toward jovial, kind, and patient. Yet, the look on his face could only be called grim.

Grim?

Her father didn’t do grim.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t want ye around all the time, but it won’t do.”

Confusion filled her foggy, travel-tired brain. “What won’t do?”

“I’m just telling ye not to pay attention to any of the villagers and their ramblings.”

She liked the villagers and their ramblings. They were her father’s companions and she’d known many of them for years. She couldn’t claim to be close to any of them, really, yet she enjoyed seeing them when she was here. Most were more her dad’s age than hers, as the young people tended to leave for the lure of the big cities, at least for a time. They were harmless, hearty folks, though, who’d welcomed her every year. She couldn’t understand why he needed to issue this warning, when he’d never done it before. “Um. Okay?”

“It’s no business of yours if Iain McPherson is driving his islands into disrepair and ruin.” He glared at his teacup.

Her father grim? Glaring? And it was her business, if her dad’s favorite place on earth was being hurt. “Ah, Dad—”

“It’s no business of yours if the boy is doing harm to everyone, including himself.”

The new Lord of the Isles was harming himself? What did that mean? “I think you need to explain—”

“Iain McPherson might be destroying his heritage and himself, but it has nothing to do with ye.”

“Dad.” Lilly straightened in her chair, her peace and comfort long gone. In its place the odd, unsettled feeling she’d tried to push away as her father got more and more upset had turned into a cold, hard knot. “What do you mean, he’s destroying or harming himself?”

“We’ve all heard the rumors.” He slapped the side of the table, making her jump. “We’ve all seen what’s being delivered.”

“What he’s ordering from Glasgow and London?” She attempted to grasp the strings of the disjointed story.

“Whiskey.” He grimaced. “Some say drugs.”

“I don’t think any reliable service would be delivering drugs.”

“Those are the rumors.” Sighing, his hand dropped from the table in a dispirited slide. “It’s nothing ye need to worry about, though. It is what it is.”

But she did worry, against her will. She didn’t like the arrogant kid she’d met that one time, but clearly, there was something wrong. And she’d learned to pay careful attention now, after losing a friend who’d retreated into alcohol as the first step toward suicide. “Did any of you think to go to the castle and talk with him? Find out if everything’s okay?”

“Of course we did. Many times.” Her dad gave her an offended look. “He wouldn’t answer. We couldn’t even get into the inner court.”

She scrunched her face in confusion. “The outer gate is always left open.”

“Not anymore.” He gave in to another gusty sigh. “The boy locked it tight as soon as he buried his da next to his mum.”

“Ten months ago.”

“When he came back from the wars.” Her father’s brown eyes went dim. “The rumor is something dreadful happened before he quit.”

The tense knot of worry turned into a crater. “He quit the service to come here and take over for his father. That’s what you told me.”

“Maybe.” He stood abruptly and began to stack the dishes. “It’s nothing to ye. Do ye understand?”

“Um.” It certainly did have something to do with her if her dad’s beloved island was being ruined. Still, she had time to figure this out and right now, she needed to sleep. Rising, she grabbed the platter of ham.

“Naw, naw.” Her father waved his hands. “I’ll take care of this. Ye go up and have a sleep. Tomorrow morning you’ll be bright and cheery and ye can make your old da his porridge.”

“Okay.” Lilly gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to be back.”

“Nice to have ye back.” Snaking his hand around her neck, he returned her kiss. “Just for this month. I know that well.”

The usual guilt murmured, but she banished it with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, lass. There’s always tomorrow.”

Lorne Alasdair Ross stood in the old graveyard of Pictloch. Rain dripped on his face and his neck, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t moved in quite some time.

William Stewart Ross

Laird, husband, father

A good man, a good life

The last date chiseled into the granite stone had passed four months ago. Yet, the carving appeared as old as the church standing some three meters from the grave. He reached out a hand, sweeping his cold palm across the top of the marker.

“Rest in peace, Da,” he murmured, the sound wafting away in the sharp wind.

A sudden burst of rain poured over his bare head, and the landscape went dim with sheets of sleet and billowing mist. He ignored it, moving his gaze to the slab that stood to the right.

Freya Eileen Murray Ross

Lady, wife, mother

A sweet lass, a warm woman

He stared at the dates on that stone, too. It hadn’t seemed like ten years had gone by since his mum died so suddenly. It still pinged in him, the loss. The loss of so much more than just his mother.

The ping surprised him.

“Sir,” his solicitor called from the open door of the limousine. “You’re going to get sick.”

His glance slid away from the stones to focus on the distressed face of Mr. Reid. Mr. Reid often appeared distressed around Lorne Ross. The solicitor was paid good money, though, and didn’t want to lose the account of his richest client.

Which made perfect sense to Lorne. Very logical.

“Sir.” A white hand waved from the open door. “Come in from the rain.”

Lorne went back to staring at his parents’ tombstones. He ordered his da’s when he was in Singapore. In the middle of supervising the last technicalities of Gaes, Inc.’s new Asian factory, he hadn’t been able to leave. It hadn’t been necessary he do so. His father had already died. All that needed to be taken care of were the various details after anyone’s death.

He’d taken care of them. 

Then, he returned to his work.

The limo’s back door slammed shut.

Mr. Reid was apparently more distressed than usual.

Looking at the church, he calculated that at the current pitch of the right line of the wall, the place would collapse within twenty years. His mother would once have chuckled if he made the observation out loud. His father would have grown distressed that he would even be thinking such a thing.

His father, along with Mr. Reid, had often been distressed with Lorne.

Shifting from his stance by the graves, he picked his way through the long grass and tumbled stones of ancient ancestors until he arrived at the low rock wall circling the church grounds. Below him stood the village of Pictloch, drenched in rain, perched on a prominent roll of the tallest mountain in the area.

He couldn’t see the mountain because of the fog and mist, yet he knew it was there. He knew where everything was, here in the land of his birth. As a child, he’d made a series of maps, detailing every crevice, every ridge of his heritage.

Ben Ross was the mountain’s name.

Named after his family’s founder more than a thousand years ago. Or so the tale went his da told him when he’d been too young to question anything. Lorne looked out at the twinkling lights of the village, the grand roll of the land down to Loch Ross, and finally focused on the white stone walls of his family home. Even in the dim light of the early evening of April seventh, it gleamed through the rain.

Castle Ross.

His work consumed him for the four months after his father’s death. His work often consumed him, and he hadn’t seen anything wrong with that. He was the only child, and so he’d taken care of the immediate responsibilities. The rest of the duties could wait until he arrived back in London. He ignored Mr. Reid’s increasingly frantic calls, because the solicitor always prefaced his rants by mentioning the late Mr. Ross.

The late Mr. Ross was dead, Lorne had thought, before he clicked the voicemail off.

Not until he arrived in England and met with the dour solicitor had the reality of the situation become clear.

His cold hands fisted in the pockets of his long overcoat.

William Stewart Ross had fallen into the clutches of a scheming woman. A scheming woman who, his security team informed him after doing their due diligence, did this before with another older man.

She left that one dead, too.

Lorne shifted on his feet again, never letting his gaze leave the white walls of his ancestral home. A home that hadn’t been passed down to a Ross as it had previously, for more than a thousand years.

Castle Ross had been given to a woman.

Along with everything else.

He turned to the limousine and paced through the graveyard one more time. His hands came out of his pockets as he got to the side of the car.

The door opened. “You’re completely wet,” Mr. Reid muttered.

He slid onto the leather seat and settled back, letting his legs ease forward, letting his hands relax on his thighs.

Leaving the Highlands at the age of eighteen, not six months after his mother’s death, Lorne hadn’t been focused on anything other than Oxford and computer code. During the last ten years, his focus hadn’t swerved—it only transitioned. From Oxford to Gaes, from computer code to hiring coders. But never did it cross his mind that this land and castle and loch and mountain wouldn’t one day be his.

Not once.

“Mr. Ross.” His solicitor sneezed before continuing. “Are we going directly to the castle to make the offer?”

Staring through the window at the wind-whipped moor, he calculated the punishment he would deliver. This wasn’t about money. He had plenty of that. Much more than his da would have entrusted to the schemer. Mr. Reid, in his naïveté, assumed this trip was about reclaiming his family’s home using his wealth.

This trip was about far more.

“Mr. Ross?” The man ran his hand across his bald head. “Perhaps we should arrive tomorrow, instead of tonight. The woman might be more willing to talk then.”

Lorne kept his focus on the land. His land.

He wasn’t surprised at his solicitor’s assumption that he was going to merely hand over money to obtain something that was already his. After all, the man had been working for him since he made his first million. In every area of his affairs, Lorne Ross was methodical. Never had emotion carried him away in his investments, his careful control of his business, nor his admittedly non-existent social life. It would be logical to assume he’d throw money at this situation and move on.

Mr. Reid was rarely distressed about Lorne’s business decisions.

He would, however, be distressed about this one.

“We will stop at the castle tonight.” His voice was soft and quiet. “To take possession.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded his head and turned the limo toward the town’s main street.

“But Mr. Ross, wouldn’t it—”

“Tonight, Reid.” His mind continued to calculate. “Tonight.”

* * *

Ceri Carys Olwen sat at the stout wooden table Will brought from the castle when she moved into the cottage four years ago. The papers strewn in front of her were the work of months, and she still hadn’t nailed down all the details because she wanted it to be exactly right.

Will would say she was being fykie.

At the thought of him, her throat closed.

She missed him—something fierce, as he would also say. She missed his off-tune whistling as he helped with her herbs. She missed his counsel on how to best handle a seventeen-year-old boy who didn’t want to listen to his older sister. More than anything, though, she missed his hug.

Usually, she didn’t like a man’s touch.

But Will had been different.

Restless, she shuffled the papers together and stood. She put the kettle on before messing around in the tiny pantry looking for biscuits or sweets. Settling on some shortbread, which would go nicely with the strawberry jam she bought in Pictloch yesterday, she placed her goodies on the table. She walked over and looked out into the rain, waiting for the kettle to heat.

She’d been in Scotland now for almost five years and she still hadn’t gotten used to the rain. Wales had lots of rain, yet it didn’t seem as harsh and icy as up here in the north. The rain in her homeland hadn’t kept her inside as it did here. Brushing her cold palm across the mist of the window, she peered into the dark.

Rain. Rain. And more rain.

A light flashed near the castle, shocking her. The light wavered and then, went out.

Ceri narrowed her eyes and glared out at the gardens. It was probably a group of stupid teenagers on some dare to see the ghost. On a night like this, though? They must have windmills whirring in their heads. She’d bet they’d have colds and chills when they returned to their scolding mums.

Sighing, she tapped her fingers on the windowsill. 

She did not want to go out in this storm, but she was responsible now for the castle and its grounds. Will had left her with the sacred duty, and she didn’t take it lightly.

She’d wait. See if anything else appeared.

The rain slanted against the window pane, and the pitch black of the moonless night gave her nothing to worry about. Really, why should she? The castle was well-locked, she made sure of that this afternoon once the cleaners left. And how much damage could a bunch of rowdy teenagers do to empty flowerbeds?

The kettle whistled for attention.

Giving the outside one more glare, Ceri decided the flash of light wasn’t a threat. She walked to the stove, poured herself a big cup of hot tea and went back to the table to peruse her extensive plans as she ate her treat.

Tourist season was less than a month away. 

Come the beginning of May, the buses would start arriving to tour the castle, and then go on to Pictloch. The quaint, cozy town now sported two new restaurants and several pubs to handle the crowds. The tourists would also likely drop a few pennies to buy the souvenirs loaded in the new stores: the wools and tartans sporting the Ross red and navy, the bottles of fine whiskey that came from the Ross distillery down the road, the silver Celtic jewelry an industrious lad had taken to making ever since the castle opened to the public three years ago.

At her suggestion.

Will didn’t like the idea at first. Eventually, though, he came around.

He’d had no choice.

Finishing her treat, she washed her cup and plate, and wiped them dry before stacking them on the dish rack. It was only nine p.m. and yet, she was tired after a long day supervising the cleaning crew. Perhaps it would be best to get an early night because come tomorrow, even if it kept raining, she was going to start planting the flowers for the new season. Castle Ross was known for the gardens as much as the indoor antiques.

Walking past the window, she gave the outside one more glance and stopped still once more.

The light. Once more, the light.

She leaned into the cottage’s deep windowsill and tried to figure out what it was. The flash bobbed, and then, inexplicably rose.

“What the hell?” she muttered to herself.

It was far off, past the gardens, she now realized. Could it possibly be Will’s famous ghost?

Ceri had ghosts in her own life so she sympathized with his, but she’d never believed in all the tall tales about Lady Aileen Ross. Supposedly, Will’s great-great-something aunt fell down the tower stairs to her death some three hundred years ago, and had been haunting it ever since.

That light was coming from the tower, dammit. A shiver of shock made goose bumps rise along her arms. Again, the light went out.

She stood. For a long time.

The light did not come back on.

Illusions and mirages had always been her curse and her savior. In this case, she was going to chalk these two sightings up as pure folly and ignore it. There was no way anyone could be in the castle and there was no way she was going to start believing in Will’s Lady Aileen.

Padding down the stone hallway, she let herself into her simple bedroom. She stripped naked and eased under the comforter Will bought for her last Christmas, and sighed.

He’d been so excited about their new plans.

Then, just like that, he was gone. A stroke taking him away from her and Elis so quickly, she still hadn’t quite caught her breath.

Punching her pillow the way she wanted to punch fate, she lay her head on it and sighed once more. Will wouldn’t be here physically, but she’d hold him in her heart as she put in place the plans they shared during many teas and biscuits. This would be as much his as hers. Whatever happened to the project, she’d make sure it didn’t impact the castle or its grounds negatively.

The castle was hers, now. The gardens, hers.

A precious gift of trust.

Something no man had ever given her.

She aimed to keep that trust to the last moment of her life.

* * *

The day broke sunny and warm, much to Ceri’s pleasure. She had only two weeks to lay all the flowerbeds before the landscaping team came in and finished the heavy work. If she had more money, she’d hand the entire job to them and focus on her herb garden, instead. But she didn’t, and that was that.

Striding out of her stone cottage, she breathed in the fresh air.

For a moment, she let her imagination go, and dreamed of seeing Will ambling across the garden path towards her, his dear face wreathed in smiles, his wisp of white hair bouncing in the breeze. For good measure, she added in her brother to the picture. Elis would be smiling, too, his lanky legs far outdistancing the man who’d become almost a father to him during the last five years.

She let the dream go.

She had too much to do today to dream for long.

Walking down the path leading to the back of the stone-walled garden, she took in the damage last night’s storm had done. There were a few broken tree limbs off the line of crab apple trees. Still, other than that, not much harm. The sturdy stone wall had been put in place by Will’s grandfather for just such weather as last night’s. 

Satisfied she wouldn’t have to spend much time cleaning up, Ceri hiked to the large wooden shed she and Will put up two summers ago. Eying the flats filled with annuals, she made quick work of deciding where she’d start. The daisies first, intermixed with the daffodils she planted last autumn. They’d look quite well next to the sweet gale shrubs she and Will had placed on the sides of the beds. Cornflowers and marigolds second. After that, she’d tackle the pruning of the roses. Hefting the first tray of flowers into her arms, she walked out of the shed and came to an abrupt stop.

A tall, lean man stood in the middle path of the garden.

He was dressed in what she could only label as London Savile Row. A dark wool suit jacket and pants with a fine pinstripe. Crisp white shirt paired with a steel-grey tie. Tight-laced leather shoes she guessed were Hugo Boss at its best.

She’d once paid quite a lot of attention to clothes.

It had been one of the few things she was allowed to concentrate on.

She gawked at him as if he were an alien. Because standing here, in her wet, wild Scottish garden, he was one.

“Hello?” she finally muttered. “May I help you?”

He looked at her, not saying a word.

Shifting the flowers onto her hip as they were beginning to be heavy, she tamped down a sliver of irritation. This guy had clearly wandered off whatever track he was supposed to be on and got lost. Into her garden. She shouldn’t scold him for that, merely shoo him on his way. “We’re not open yet. Not until the first of May, I’m afraid.”

His eyes widened, as his hands moved into the suit's pockets, shifting the jacket enough that she could see he was whip-thin.

He said nothing.

Her irritation bubbled. Frowning at him, she made the shooing more clear. “You’ll have to come back later. We’re not open.”

“Mrs. Ceri Llewellyn.”

The old name she’d discarded, as soon as Gareth died, sliced through her in a swift cut. What struck her even harder was the way he said the words. His voice didn’t lift at the end. This wasn’t a question.

“No.” She shifted the flowers in front of her in a poor defense. “That’s not my name.”

His eyes never left hers. He went silent again.

“Who are you?” Her hands tightened on the tray.

“Are ye saying you’re not Ceri Llewellyn?” This time, his voice lifted slightly, but then it slid down at the end, in a hushed, quiet way.

A hushed, quiet threat.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

It was ever-so-slight, his accent. There was posh London riding over every vowel, and a bit of Oxford polish, too. Underneath, though, lay Scots. Pure Scots.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice rising, a counterpoint to his.

“Sir!” The call came from behind, strident and harassed. A short, portly man dressed in fine London clothes, too, came waddling across the garden pathway. Coming from the back end of the castle, not the wide swath of parking lot she and Will installed the first year the tourists started arriving.

The castle.

The lights last night.

A man who might actually have a key to the castle. A key of his own.

Maybe she was dealing with a ghost besides Lady Aileen. Because now that she had a moment to think, this man standing in front of her had Will’s build, if nothing else. “Are you—?”

“Sir!”

The sir standing in front of her didn’t stir. Not one hair.

And that hair was a clue, too. Will’s beloved wife had red hair. Ceri had seen several pictures in the castle, and the one magnificent portrait he commissioned of his wife right before her death.

Freya Ross with her red-gold hair. 

A fiery blessing, Will had said with fondness.

This man had his hair pulled back, but his short beard and the hair she could see was all fire. All red-gold fire.

“Sir!” The portly man raced to the other man’s side, his round face flushed. He stumbled to a stop when he spotted her. “You’ve found her.”

“I don’t know.” His voice was so soft, so low.

She could have been lulled by the gentleness of it, if she hadn’t learned some very hard, fast lessons about men. She thought she left those lessons and those kind of men back in Wales. When she pulled her roots up and left for good, she thought she’d start a new life here, where no one knew her or what she was before.

“What do you mean?” The older man lifted his head, his eyes puzzled.

“She won’t confess.”

Confess.

Ceri dropped the flat of flowers onto the dirt-and-stone path. She hadn’t fought in a long time. Not since she arrived in Pictloch to be greeted with warmth. Not since she met Will and came under his protection. And not since she and Elis had been welcomed into Castle Ross and made to feel like family.

But that didn’t mean she still didn’t know how to fight.

“I want you to leave.” She thrust her trembling fists on her hips. “Right now.”

He didn’t move. His gaze never left hers.

“Wait, wait.” The portly man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. “We’re here to offer you quite a sum of money.”

“Reid.” The other man swung his gaze from hers, making her feel as if she could suddenly draw in a breath. For the first time, his voice wasn’t soft or quiet. It was hard. Brutal and tough and curt.

Her heart hammered in her chest in a frenzied jitter.

“Yes, sir?” The little man jumped and his nose went red.

“Leave.” He gestured toward the castle as his gaze returned to her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Sir, it’s best I negotiate with—”

“Now.”

The portly man ran off as if a fire had been lit under his high-class shoes.

Four months. Four months had passed, and she thought Will’s predictions had come true. She thought she was free and that she and Elis were safe. She thought—

“I suppose I can’t make ye claim your name,” he said, his face impassive. “I certainly can call ye what ye truly are, though.”

She glared at him. For all the pain he’d caused his da. For all the silent pauses when Will looked like he’d lost his heart. For all the times she wished Elis could somehow replace what her friend had missed. “You’re Lorne Ross.”

“Aye. And ye,” he slid his hand back into the suit's pocket, “are a gold-digger.”

“No deal.”

Nick Townsend kept his gaze on the man sitting across from him as he said the words. He’d learned a man could grow mean when denied.

Behind his distinctive Huon pine desk, Clyde McDowell nodded slowly and surveyed the room like he was taking stock. Before this discussion started, the old man spent quite a long time talking about Tasmania’s finest wood for furniture. After that, he’d proceeded to cover every piece of wood in this entire office. Nick now knew more than he ever wanted to about Huon pine, and the Silver Wattle double doors behind him leading into the conference room, and the myrtle sideboard Clyde used for his liquor stash. He’d kept his impatience in check because he figured the man was trying to give him a sense of what he stood to gain when he signed on the dotted line.

Something that wasn’t going to happen.

A low hum came from the man behind the desk. Then, he smiled.

That was unexpected.

Nick’s fingers twitched on his leg and his instincts went on alert. He’d known this man for more than a year, and they’d been dancing around each other for six months. He figured there’d be disappointment in those faded eyes. Hell, he was disappointed himself. The deal he’d dreamed of and been excited about was one he didn’t want to let go of, either.

However, McDowell’s last condition was unacceptable. 

“I thought you’d say that.” The old man’s smile went wide, creasing slack jowls.

This smile made his instincts go from watchful to wary. He straightened in the alligator-leather chair its owner had crowed about before Nick sat on it.  “Did you?” 

“Yes.” Clyde smoothed a gnarled hand across the contract they’d been negotiating. “No man wants to contemplate getting tied down.”

He didn’t think of marriage in the context of getting tied down. He thought about it more as descending into the pit of hell. When he climbed into his private plane to make this long journey to the other side of the planet, he’d wondered why Clyde wanted to discuss their final plans in Tasmania, of all places. Now that he’d been shown around the oldest of the McDowell hotels, and heard the history of this man finding his bride here, it made some kind of weird sense. A new family tradition, or a new way of cementing the future. But that didn’t matter anymore, because he wasn’t buying into that future.

There really wasn’t anything more to say. 

Standing, he brushed his hands over his cream slacks before glancing at the man one last time. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement. I was looking forward to combining your hotels with my casinos.”

“Oh, that will still happen.” Clyde’s smile didn’t budge. “I’m sure of it.”

“Are you?” Wariness turned to annoyance. He didn’t mind pride or arrogance in a man. Why would he, when he had both characteristics himself? 

But the old man’s smile grated, and it was time he left before his ever-present temper appeared. 

Swiveling, he headed for the elaborately-carved teak door leading into the hallway. Clyde had told him he imported it from an island near the Philippines. Didn’t the man know gathering one exotic wood after another in the same room led only to disastrous interior design? 

He managed to stop himself from shaking his head. 

He also curbed the regret he would no longer be taking a figurative broom to this man’s holdings. “I’ll see myself out.”

“I bought your father’s ranch.”

The words, gruff and gravelly, took Nick in their grasp and tightened. Clenched and compressed. His every muscle went taut. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Yanking around, he stared at the wily old man. 

As long as he’d known Clyde, never once had he caught him in a lie. It was one of the things he appreciated about the founder and CEO of McDowell Enterprises. One of many things he appreciated. He liked the man’s keen intelligence and wit. He enjoyed his insights about the current markets, and his take on what the future of the hospitality industry would entail. When the proposal to merge their companies had come up in casual conversation, he immediately grasped where this man was going because another talent this man possessed was a straightforward way of looking at life. Or death, in this case.  

Clyde McDowell was dying.

And he was looking for an heir.

Since his own father had sliced apart any of his ideas of being a worthy successor, Nick hadn’t minded the idea that this successful man—far wealthier than Edward Townsend—would choose him. He also hadn’t minded the thought of taking over a giant, world-wide company badly in need of new leadership. Not until today, though, did he understand what lay beneath Clyde’s final resolution of his life. 

Not until today did he understand the old man’s final parlay.

McDowell hadn’t actually lied to him about this last condition, not to any great extent. Yet, he hadn’t laid out all his cards like a good businessman would if he were dealing fairly. 

The thought flashed inside him and his temper reared to life. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know you.” Clyde’s smile hung on. “You’re exactly like I was forty years ago.”

“Not exactly.” He sneered. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

“Weren’t you?” Gray brows rose. “When I met with your father at the ranch, it appeared there was plenty of money greasing the gears.”

True. There was cattle and oil and gas, and a hundred and fifty years of Townsend thriftiness stored in the local bank. But he hadn’t grown up with any of that. He’d grown up a hoodlum and a thief. Even after he’d arrived at Ádh Ranch at the age of fourteen, he hadn’t been trusted with anything of importance. 

You’re crazy, just like your mother.

Shaking off the memory of his father’s constant refrain, he focused on the old man still sitting patiently behind his desk. “You said my father sold you the ranch?”

“Correct.”

Impossible. Edward Townsend lived and breathed the place. He honored the family heritage, revered his ancestors, who’d fought for every acre. He would never let go of one inch of that hallowed homeland, even if he had only one worthless son to inherit. Throughout all these years they stayed apart, the Townsend father and son had understood one thing, if nothing else. 

Townsend land was always passed down to a Townsend.

The surety of that unspoken pledge settled him. “You must be mistaken—”

“Your father was concerned about the ranch being broken up.” Clyde’s smile finally faded into a grimace. “He was worried about what you’d do to the place after he died.”

A rip of pain, swift and sure, went through him like the slice of a knife. He’d been in many knife fights as a kid, and had his share of slices. But this one cut into his heart and made it hard for him to breathe.

“So,” the old man continued, his gaze sharp and wise. “I told him about my daughter and my plans.”

Plans to tie Nick down. 

Plans that would take him straight to hell. 

“I also pledged to him the homestead would stay as is, and it would stay in the family. I put it in the contract we signed.”

A family consisting of a Townsend and a McDowell. A family two old men had schemed to produce. A family he had no intention of being a part of. “There’s going to be no family.”

“Come on.” For the first time during the meeting, Clyde displayed a slice of his formidable personality. His hand hit the desk with a crack. “Don’t be a fool. You know the stakes at this point. Do I really have to spell it out?”

No, he didn’t. If Nick wanted to keep Ádh Ranch, he needed to marry the McDowell daughter. A woman he’d never met and only heard about peripherally, as some vague presence hovering in the background of this old man’s life. A woman who apparently needed her father to arrange a union because she couldn’t get one on her own. 

There must be something wrong with her. She must be crazy, or ugly. 

Or both. 

He hadn’t done crazy since he buried his mother, and he’d never done ugly at all. “I’m not interested.”

“Not interested in that ranch of yours?” The old man’s tone turned sly.

“It’s my father’s and he can do whatever the hell he wants with the place.” Except, that wasn’t true. The ranch might be his pa’s in the present, yet it was his for the future. He’d known that when he walked away from the place at the age of eighteen. Walked away before he took an axe to his father’s stubborn head. He’d known eventually, Ádh would be his. 

His heritage. His honor. His home.

Somehow, Clyde McDowell found this out—this vital piece of himself he’d kept well-hid for years. Certainly not from talking to his pa, however. Edward had no inkling of how important the ranch was to him, because Nick hadn’t wanted to give his father any more ammunition than he already possessed. Somehow, though, this old man before him had figured out his Achilles’ heel.

The realization heated his temper into a rage. “I’ll give you twice what you paid for it.”

The tense line of the old man’s shoulders eased and immediately, Nick understood he’d made a huge strategic mistake. He rarely made mistakes anymore, and never huge ones. He’d learned and learned well. 

Estoy jodido.

Sí, he was truly fucked.

“I think we should begin planning that wedding of yours, huh?” Clyde smiled one more time.

* * *

Jessica McDowell lived for parties. 

But not in the sense one usually thought of. She didn’t yearn to put on heels and swing from the chandeliers. She had no interest in party dresses and being seen with the best of the best. And it took her years of concentrated devotion to the McDowell business to train herself to endure the crowds perpetually encircling her and her father.

No, she lived for parties in the sense that this was her role in life. To throw parties and be the hostess. To be her father’s surrogate and sidekick.

“Jessica,” her father grumbled. “Don’t hover.”

Drawing back, she stifled the immediate hurt and smiled down at him. “I was only making sure you had what you needed.”

Clyde sat in the leather chair he invariably landed in when they held a party in the McDowell crown jewel—Denver’s Golden Palace. He’d only returned from his quick trip to Tasmania last night, but even so, he insisted on attending this party she arranged a month ago. The Golden Palace hosted this charity ball in October without fail, and the owner needed to attend, her father stated. 

Tonight would be no different. 

There was McDowell history and prestige to uphold, of course.

The hotel sat in the center of the city, a magnet for rock stars and presidents for the last hundred years. Her father bought the place when Jessica was ten. They’d lived here for a month before decamping for her father’s next purchase. If she remembered correctly, it had been the hotel in southern France.

“I have what I need, and Carlos can get anything I want going forward.” Clyde waved at the swirling crowd of tuxedoed men and silk-covered women surrounding them. “Go mingle.”

The two words she’d dreaded for most of her life. Except somewhere between earning her MBA and finding her feet in the McDowell organization, Jess learned to deal with those words. “Fine. I’ll be back in a few.”

She moved off, her pale-gray silk gown swishing on her legs. The color suited her desire to not draw attention. The dress itself suited her by covering most of her gangly body. Before she let herself dip into the familiar yearning for jeans and a T-shirt, she focused. 

On her hotel. 

The massive ballroom’s arched ceiling glittered with gold-and-glass chandeliers, a signature ornamentation she helped her dad pick out when they renovated seven years ago. The inlaid Italian marble floors threw the light back, making the giant room seem to glow. If she tried, she could almost ignore the crack running down one cream wall, and the way the uniforms of the waiters weren’t up to snuff.

Her hands balled into fists. 

The frustration swelled.

Her father was dying. There was nothing she could do about that, although she still fought against the knowledge. Fought against the well of deep despair. However, her home, the McDowell hotels, was crumbling. And there was for damn sure something she could do about that.

If only her dad would let her.

“Jess.” The hotel’s catering director stepped to her side. “There’s trouble in the kitchen.”

Along with mingling, she’d acquired other skills. Like pacifying temperamental chefs and negotiating peace between maids and managers. She’d learned to smooth over her father’s tirades at their lawyers, finesse issues with various governmental agencies, thread a needle through competing concerns. 

She’d done it in France, in Thailand, in every McDowell hotel strewn across the world.

Why couldn’t her father see this? Why couldn’t he acknowledge she’d been doing most of the behind-the-scenes work for at least two years? Why wouldn’t he name her the heir and give her the power? There were so many changes and improvements needed, but nothing significant was being done. Not for years.

“Jess?”

Pulling herself together, she gave the catering director her confident smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”

Which had become her mantra. It was the only thing she was allowed to do. Fix things. Not change them or improve them. No, all her dad would let her do was keep things status quo. 

Barely.

She’d believed him, at first. Believed he was merely tired and needed to recharge. It still hurt to know he’d withheld the knowledge of his real situation.

Not until six months ago, did she realize.

“You’re…dying?” She’d clung to the windowsill looking out on Hyde Park. 

They were staying at the McDowell London hotel for a month, and the only thing her father told her was he had some tests scheduled with specialists he could only find in England.

“Yes.” He’d squinted at her before glancing away, as always. He’d long ago given up trying to find any of her mother’s beauty in her and yet, the glance away still bit her. Hurt her. “I’ve got maybe a year to live.”

“A year?” She needed to lean against the window for support.

As long as she’d lived, Clyde McDowell was the center of her life. She hadn’t been the type of girl to wrap a daddy around her pinky finger, or the type of young lady to impress a father who believed women should be beautiful ornaments in a man’s life. Rather, she’d been the type to slide into her bed with a good book and hide along the walls at parties. She’d been the type to voice her opinions even in the face of his wrath. She’d been the type to ignore makeup and fancy shoes and couture dresses.

She’d been a disappointment. 

She also knew he loved her.

“Yes, but don’t worry.” He’d stood in a slow, shaky movement. “I have your future planned.”

That statement jerked her straight. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll be taken care of.”

She closed her eyes against the reality of a wall she’d never been able to break through. Still, she had to try again. “Dad. How many times do I—”

“I’m your father.” Lurching toward his desk, he laid a trembling hand on the edge. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

“I’m twenty-nine. I don’t need to be taken care of anymore.”

“I promised your mother I’d take care of you,” he said in a soft, tough voice. “I promised.”

Jess walked to his side to stare into his narrowed eyes. “That was when I was a baby, Dad. I’m not a child anymore. Can’t you see?”

Except he couldn’t see. Not seven years ago, when she graduated from Yale summa cum laude. Not five years ago, when she graduated at the top of her Harvard MBA class. Not now, when he knew there was no one else to take over the McDowell hotels who loved them as much as he did.

Sighing, she focused on tonight’s emergency.

By the time she solved the troubles in the kitchen, her head had begun to pound from the frustration and the returning fear. The fear that started to simmer in her during these last few months, as she realized her father might well sell the hotels out from under her to some huge conglomerate. A faceless group of investors who wouldn’t care if Chef Philipe had the correct spices for a dish, and wouldn’t worry whether Cecily the concierge was pregnant or not. 

Didn’t her father see? 

The McDowell hotels were her home, the staff the family she’d grown up with. 

How could he possibly think a pile of millions of dollars would compensate her for the loss of family and home? The loss of her reason to exist?

Standing at the entrance door of the ballroom, she scanned the crowd and was satisfied at what she saw. Clyde McDowell sat in his high-backed chair, surrounded by a crowd. Jess heard his hoarse laugh and watched as Carlos, his constant companion since being hired for the role several months ago, handed him a glass of water.

Her dad was all right. For the moment.

She decided she’d take a few minutes to gather herself. Frustration and fear weren’t emotions she should be dealing with while she served as the gracious hostess her father required.  

Backing away, she strode down the hallway and onto the small balcony the staff used to smoke and chat. To her relief, it was empty. The balcony led off past another hallway, winding back to the ballroom. When her father first demanded she serve as his hostess, she’d spent several nights coming here, time and time again, ready to vomit over the anxiety.

That girl and her worries seemed far distant.

Now, she was a woman struggling to find a way to prove herself. 

She took in a breath of crisp October air and lectured herself. There was still time. Her dad loved her. These hotels were hers. She only needed a moment, a speck of time, to reach her father. Tell him her truth. Convince him.

“Hello.” A deep, masculine voice came from the open doorway.

Whipping around, she eyed the male lurking in the shadows. The night was dark with not a touch of moonlight, and the city lights were dulled by the darkness of the alley below and the looming walls of the hotel above. Only the dim bulb shining behind him hinted at his bulk.

Yet, she knew instantly. This wasn’t one of the staff, and wasn’t anyone she knew.

“May I join you?” He took a step closer and the door swung shut behind him.

Jess shifted into the corner of the balcony.

The man stilled.

She’d been under her dad’s protection her entire life. He had security surrounding her from the day she was born, and she’d never stepped out of a McDowell hotel without an escort. Even at college, she was forced to endure the taunts of her classmates because her father wouldn’t budge. 

“Jessica,” he’d said with a snap. “You’re the only daughter of one of the richest men in the world.”

“But, Dad—”

“I don’t intend to lose any of my wealth ransoming you back from a kidnapper.”

“I won’t be—”

“And it would kill me if you were raped or mugged.” He’d stared at her hard. Something he only did when he was really focusing in on her. Just her. “Don’t put me through that.”

There had been love in his voice, and that didn’t happen often, so she went silent and hadn’t complained since. Not even when McDowell security vetted the two boyfriends she dated in her twenties.

Consequently, she’d never been in a situation where she was alone with a strange man. 

A thrill of something that wasn’t dismay ran up her spine.

“Don’t be afraid.” The masculine voice went husky as if he were cajoling a frightened kitten. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know.” Straightening, she remembered who she was. A strong woman. She’d taken a martial arts class last year, and if she had to, she could scream, and her entire staff would come running.

“Good.” He took a step closer and the movement of his body, even in the gloom, caught her attention.

He moved with fluid grace, like a dancer, like an acrobat. After flying across the world a time or two and landing in city after city filled with theaters and amusements, Jess had attended hundreds of shows celebrating the human body in all its sinuous glory. This man moved like he was on stage. He commanded the area around him with a vital, virile force.

Her fingers tightened on the steel railing and she raised her chin. “Who are you?”

“Nick.” The name came out with a flick at the end, as if he dismissed himself.

Which was absurd. Even in these few short seconds, she could see this man was powerful. “Nick who? And how did you find your way back into the employee area?”

“I took a walk down a hall, because I needed to get away from the crowd for awhile.” Stepping to the rail, he leaned his elbows on it and peered at the alley below. His scent drifted to her. It wasn’t like any men’s cologne she’d ever smelled. It hinted of spicy, hot nights with a warm, rich undertone, beckoning a woman to come closer.

She stayed where she was. “This isn’t a place for hotel guests.”

“I’m not a hotel guest.” He kept his gaze straight, not glancing at her. “I’m something else.”

Just then, a flash of car headlights struck his face, highlighting his profile.

Jess sucked in a deep breath.

Lucas Miró Porras gritted his teeth.

It was something he did a lot lately.

“Stop doing that. It makes you look like a freaky bear,” his sous-chef said, in her usual mild tone. 

Eulalie Vincent majored on mild, so he could major on mad. 

He grunted, keeping his focus on the fetid, lewd piece of crap that had invaded his neighborhood. The youngest girl was talking to that hippie boyfriend of hers. The one who wore a scarf in the middle of a New Orleans summer and drove a mini-motorbike he thought made him look cool. 

Jackass.

“No amount of growling or grinding your teeth changes the facts.” Lali pointed out something she’d been pointing out for the last two months. “The fact is your father—”

“I know.” Swinging around from the piece of crap and the jackass, he strode away from the full-length window he’d installed in his restaurant only two weeks before the crap ruined the view out onto his street.

His street.

Del Bosque Street lay in the center of New Orleans’ French Quarter. The entire street, both sides, had been owned by either the Miró family or the Porras family since the city was founded three hundred years ago. His popa’s ancestors had arrived with its first French governor and his mami’s Spanish forbearers came soon after. Smartly, both families gobbled up large tracts of land on the Mississippi river, as well as in the burgeoning city itself. When his mami and popa married and were blessed with only one child, all that property passed down and down and down to him.

All of it. Every last piece of it was deeded to him on his thirtieth birthday. 

As it should have been.

Except for one slice of Del Bosque Street.

One piece of the Miró Porras kingdom his popa stupidly let go of in a fit of friendship. It was bad enough when he was told about the sale to some con artist Cajun. His popa assured him, though, that Mr. Blanchard would keep leasing to the regular tenants. Plus, Luc didn’t like fighting with his father. That never went well. So, he’d gritted his teeth and made semi-peace with the whole situation for the last five years.

However, his dear, deluded popa had been wrong.

As soon as Karl Beuze, a man who’d been a family friend and a tenant in good standing for thirty years, decided to close his bookstore across the street, Mr. Cajun-ass Blanchard leased the store to—

His three crazy granddaughters.

Trois Sœurs, announced the ugly sign above their new shop. A shop that sported crap like herbal lotions and voodoo dolls and other assorted atrocities. Strange lights blasted from the display in the front window, crossing his street to muck up his sophisticated restaurant storefront. 

Trois Sœurs.

Three sisters straight from hell. 

“They aren’t that bad, Luc,” his perpetually cheerful sous-chef said from behind him. Although she was at least a half a foot shorter than him, she still managed to follow right on his footsteps as they entered the center of his kingdom.

The kitchen at El Porras was his masterpiece. 

It was also the one place he felt at home. 

His mami said it was his cave. And the way she said it made it clear she didn’t think that was a positive thing. However, he’d become good at ignoring his worried mother for years.

“They seem nice, actually,” Lali suggested, from the swinging doors leading out of the dining area. “Especially the youngest one.”

He grunted his disgust before disappearing into the large walk-in cooler. 

Steel racks lined both walls, filled with King Snapper, Crevalle Jack, marbled grouper, Coho salmon—all delivered this morning from the fish market. Tonight, he planned on an all-fish menu in honor of the hundredth anniversary of his gra-mère’s birth. The woman wasn’t here on earth anymore, but since this restaurant wouldn’t exist without her influence on him, he figured it was appropriate to remember. Gra-mère always enjoyed her fish.

The door popped open, just as he began to inspect the various cuts. 

“Luc.” His sous- chef’s voice was pitched high. Which meant that she was excited about something.

He grunted.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

The mullet didn’t look fresh. That pissed him off, because he insisted on getting only fresh. He needed to call his supplier. The man should know better after ten years.

“Luc.” 

“Tell them to go away.”

“It’s your new neighbor.”

At that announcement, his head swung up in surprise. After the first and only confrontation two months ago, he assumed the three crazy sisters got the message. 

Stay away.

He wouldn’t have to deal with any of them until he figured out a way to get their lease broken, or buy the entire property. Returning it to the true owner—himself. His lawyers hadn’t achieved much success so far in negotiating with the cussed Cajun grandfather, but Lucas wasn’t worried. Everyone had a price. 

“The youngest one.” Her white teeth contrasting with her dark skin, Lali beamed. As if this was a good thing.

“Tell her to leave.” He turned his attention to the fish once more, yet a niggle of curiosity wormed its way into his brain. That made him frown. 

“She looks pretty determined, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask.” Brushing away the curiosity, he noted the oysters looked fantastic. Perhaps he’d start tonight’s special with his cornbread and red onion recipe, fried with these.

“Your mami is going to be so disappointed.” 

He glanced at his friend. Wearing her typical garb of airy cotton shirt, khaki cargo pants, and clogs, Lali oozed lazy ease. Although she was six years younger than he, Luc had pegged her as an old soul the moment she stepped into his office to apply for a job. 

She lounged in the cooler’s doorway, her expression wry, her gaze wise. 

Like his mami, Eulalie Vincent witnessed the debacle five years ago, and the aftermath as well. Like his mami, she’d seen him fall apart and then, slowly piece himself back together. And like his mami, she still insisted he needed to go farther, push himself out of his cave.

He liked his cave. “I don’t know why my mother should care if I talk to a crazy woman.”

“I’m not crazy.” A light, amused voice wafted from the kitchen.

Luc went taut. “You let her in?”

“She knocked on the back door. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Tell her to leave?” He could see, though, he’d lost the battle by the look in Lali’s eyes. She wasn’t going to throw the woman out, so he needed to. The thought made him growl.

“Don’t do that. It makes you sound like a nasty bear.”

Sweeping past her, he strode into his kingdom with a scowl, ready to dismiss this intruder with several sharp words.

He came to an abrupt stop.

In the last two months, from his restaurant’s front windows, he’d observed all three sisters. The tallest one must be married, because she often had a blond kid in tow, she wore a flashy diamond on her left hand, and she wore comfortable clothes designed to dash after a child. The second one tended toward the pearls-and-linen type of wear, the kind of dress his Aunt Marli favored. 

Yet, his gaze, much to his disgust, mostly landed on the youngest. 

He knew she was the youngest because Lali told him so, and also because she chose the typical clothing of a college student. Tight jeans or baggy sweat pants. Hoodies combined with a T-shirt or tank top. Ragged-looking tennis shoes, with not a high heel in sight.

Right now, though, she wore high heels. 

In the few short minutes since he saw her outside, she’d changed. Everything.

“Hi,” she piped.

The shoes were bright pink, like the salmon he planned on cooking tonight. The shoes matched the cardigan she’d put on over the dress. A dress. This girl never wore dresses. Not in the entire two months he’d observed her. 

“What’s the occasion?” Folding his arms, he leaned against the granite counter. “Finally got a date worth dressing up for?”

She made a low sound in her throat. It was a mix of merriment and sex. A combination and a noise he’d never heard. To his utter exasperation and complete disbelief, his cock stirred.

That hadn’t happened in front of a woman in years.

The realization turned his irritation at this girl and her sisters and her shop into pure anger. “This kitchen isn’t open to outsiders. You need to leave.”

At his bark, her eyes widened. During their first altercation, he noticed they were an odd color, but he’d been too busy yelling to care. Now, he grudgingly identified them as a blue-gray. Striking against the pearly cream of her skin. 

Pearly. He sounded like some adolescent writing dreadful poetry.

Mierda.

“Get out,” he grumbled. “The door’s right behind you.”

* * *

Nina Blanchard believed most people were wonderful. Almost all. They might have their bad moments and their quirky ways, yet at the core, most people had good hearts.

Except for this guy standing before her. 

Jeanie said it must be something he was eating to make him so disagreeable, and he needed to change his diet. Heni thought he might have psycho tendencies, and needed a psychiatrist. Paw-Paw said the man was aggressively nasty because his father sold the property to him instead of giving it to his son. The man had a right to his feelings, her grandfather added, and he just needed some time to get over it.

They were all wrong. 

What this man needed was his very own voodoo doll that she’d cheerfully stick pins in. 

“We need to talk.” She clenched her teeth in a smile because she was desperate enough to play nice.

“Nothing to talk about.” 

His lounging body told a story of supreme indifference. But the expression on his face told her he hadn’t changed his opinion of her since they met that fateful day two months ago. He hated them and their shop with a passion because they carried dirty, disgusting wares. She remembered the words he’d thrown. 

Dirty, disgusting. Fetid crap.

As if he had standing to talk.

Such a saleau, this man. Such a sloppy, surly beast of a man.

His black hair hung around his face in loops of curls that could be deliciously sexy if combed. Except they weren’t, so he looked like he’d just climbed out of bed. His jaw was covered in whiskers that again, had potential. Still, he hadn’t trimmed them, and so they were wasted. Those dark-brown eyes could dazzle if they didn’t constantly glare. His height and heft were a pleasure to gaze at and, she had to admit, she’d caught herself spying on him a time or two. Still, the way he held himself, so tight and angry…the body, too, was a waste on this man.

Such a waste.

A saleau. Definitely.

Straightening, Nina reminded herself about why she was here. She wasn’t here to judge this man. She was here to charm him into agreement. Her sisters had chided and scolded and teased her as she dressed at the shop. But a proper pouponer was needed and she’d learned from her mama how to look nice. 

Heels. Powder on the face. An appropriate dress.

All for this saleau.

Who didn’t appreciate it, apparently. Yet.

Widening her smile, she smoothly eased onto one hip and tilted her breasts his way. These were skills she’d absorbed from a very young age. Skills her mama insisted every woman needed. Skills she discarded when she went to Tulane and realized they didn’t work when a girl wanted to be taken seriously. But she never forgot a lesson.

A short gust of a laugh came from his assistant. 

She liked the woman. They’d run into each other on the street several times and Lali was always pleasant. Why she would work for a man like this—a peunez, a porro, a stinkbug wart of a man—Nina had no idea. 

The scowl on his face turned into an expression of utter evil. His dark brows fell into a glower, and his mouth went grim and tight. Then, the porro growled. 

At her. At her Sunday best dress and powdered face. 

Truly, she needed a voodoo doll.

“You need to leave, right now.” He growled again.

Nina could see this was a hopeless cause, but she was the queen of hopeless causes, and never gave up. “I think we should have a street festival.”

Her words bounded into the room like little fawns, ready to be gobbled up by a big, bad wolf. 

Which is exactly what he did. His mouth opened and he chewed her idea to pieces. “Del Bosque Street is mine. There is no way I'll allow you to dirty it up with your profane wares.”

“Profane wares?” Dirty and disgusting she could handle—perhaps the man needed only to learn. Except profane was an entirely different accusation. Profane meant he’d made a harsh judgment, something no fair person would do without a hearing. Her temper, something she rarely experienced, rose. “What does that mean?”

He tensed and took a step toward her. Since he possessed extra-long legs, something she’d noticed with reluctance, he entered her personal space with the one stride. Nina wasn’t terribly short, though she wasn’t terribly tall, either. Consequently, he overshadowed her, his broad shoulders cutting off the light. His chest, covered in a simple, navy-blue T-shirt that emphasized his pectorals, loomed in front of her, making her catch her breath.

The saleau smelled good. Like sweet custard and toasted pecans.

At the thought, she reared back.

“Excellent,” he snarled. “Keep going.”

Her temper simmered to the boiling point. Not only because he was a jerk, but because she suddenly realized she was attracted to said jerk. “You are a horrible man.”

“Yes, I am.” Taking another step toward her, his lips turned into a grimace, as if the man were attempting to smile and couldn’t because she was in his kitchen. “You’d be wise to stay away from me and mine.”

“I can have a street festival without your permission.” She gulped in a breath, this time from her mouth, not her nose, to avoid his scent, and stood her ground. As her Maw-Maw often said, it was always a good idea to give a person more than one chance. “On the other hand, I thought if all the shops participated, it would be better.”

“Better for whom?” he said, the brown of his eyes glittering with irritation. “For you and your lewd shop?”

“Lewd?” The shop’s stock might be avant-garde, but so what? It didn’t mean she was out to offend. In one second, she lost a temper she’d never lost before. Stepping into his space, she jabbed an unpainted finger into his chest.

It was quite hard. 

Distracted for a moment, she stared at her finger pressed into the soft cotton of the T-shirt, and his solid wall of muscles. 

“Lewd,” he muttered above her.

Thankfully, that brought her brain back to reality. She poked him again. “Are you claiming my store is lewd?”

“I’m not claiming.” His words were rough and tough, yet he retreated from her poke. “I’m telling you it is.”

“How would you know, capon? You’ve never entered the place.”

His brows rose. “What did you call me?”

“Like you don’t know, you coward,” she spat at him, all thoughts of making nice gone. 

“Let’s calm down, shall we?” Lali counseled.

“I am calm.” Swiveling, he showed Nina his big, broad back. “I’m also done with this conversation. Get her out of here.”

With that grand announcement, he disappeared into the kitchen’s cooler once more.

His assistant eyed her, her mouth in a moue. “Maybe try later. I think it’s a good idea.”

“He is une bête puante, a saleau,” she grumbled under her breath. “I hate him.”

“He can be difficult, but he’s not hopeless.”

Nina harrumphed, crossing her arms and trying to think of a Plan B. Plan A had been a desperate gamble, she knew that coming here. She should have also known a pretty dress wasn’t going to impress Del Bosque Street’s resident grouch. Everyone along the street seemed resigned to his endless grumbles and growls. They accepted him as is. 

Why? 

Mrs. Williams had advised offering him one of the oil paintings from her art gallery as a gift to soothe him. Mr. Touslare, who owned the bakery next to her shop, agreed that Luc was a man to stay clear of, although it was understandable why he acted the way he did. Ms. Faulkner, hunkered on the stool in her coffee café, mumbled darkly about cruel happenings and bitter realizations. The vague curiosity she’d felt at the time of these conversations now returned with a vengeance. 

“Why is he so angry? Why can’t he get along with people?”

Lali gazed at her, her brown eyes solemn. “It’s a long story, and he’d kill me if I told you.”

Frustration ran through her, and with it, her belief in people. Most people were good at heart. Why wasn’t Luc Miró Porras? “Something needs to be done.”

“Correct.” The other woman grinned, a quick flash of glee. “And I believe you’re exactly the woman to do it.”

Once upon a time, Maurisa Margot Migneault was the luckiest girl in the world. 

She had the best parents ever. She had the best friends ever. And she had the bestest best boyfriend, soon to be her loving husband.

Until Spencer Talbot Dodge split with her the day after their college graduation.

Risa slumped into the finest office chair money could buy, or that’s what her daddy said, and stared at the framed photograph of the love of her life. And her. Spencer smiled at her from his towering height, his beautiful brown eyes filled with devotion. She’d been wearing his favorite dress—the Chanel with the red and pink and purple flowers sprinkled across the entire length—and her Kate Spade sunglasses sparkling with white gems. If she did say so herself, she looked dazzling. 

Except, apparently, not dazzling enough.

A sniff echoed in the large corner office.

When she arrived here for her first job ever, two months ago, she brought this photo because she was positive she’d get Spencer back. Along with the photo, she’d carried in the two ferns Grandma Olsen gave her on her birthday, a set of personalized pens her sorority sisters surprised her with at graduation, and her three favorite paintings of flowers by Cézanne, Renoir, and Monet.

The flowers and the ferns appeared to droop. Exactly like her spirits.

Spencer hadn’t come back.

In fact, quite the opposite.

She stared at the West Palm Beach Society Magazine sitting in her lap. Ever since meeting Spencer, she’d known this was the paper to be in. All the best parties and the best people appeared on its pages.

There was her boyfriend.

On the eighth page—the page highlighting the weekend’s charity gala held at the Dodge compound where she’d only been invited to once.

A second sniff echoed.

Spencer had his arm around another girl. A girl Risa met when she attended the one family dinner. A girl his mother loved and gushed over the entire night. A recent graduate of Harvard. A great-great-granddaughter of one of West Palm Beach’s founders. A girl who belonged to the elite.

Missy Flagler.

The bitch.

She yanked on another tissue and dabbed it on her eyes, careful to not ruin her makeup. If her mascara got smudged, her daddy would notice and he’d worry. The parents were worried about her a lot lately, and she didn’t want to create any further concern. 

Her hand tightened on the tissue. 

There must be something she could do, something she could think of to let Spencer know she was the one. The emails hadn’t worked. Her Facebook messages were ignored. Even the delightful video she’d sent him, starring her in a bathing suit, received no response.

But there must be something she could do to gain his attention once more.

The double doors to her office inched open. Her father’s worried face poked around the edge. “Princess?”

Sticking the damp tissue under the steel and glass desk, she plastered on a smile. “Hi, Daddy.”

“What are you doing?” He eased into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft thud.

Nothing. Like she’d been doing for the last two months. A bubble of irritation floated into her gut, something she never felt with her dad. Which surprised her.

Why?

It wasn’t as if she wanted to work here. She didn’t want to be sitting in the Migneault Perfumery offices. She hadn’t planned on a job using her chemistry degree. Being Mrs. Spencer Talbot Dodge was going to be her job.

“Oh, this and that.” Risa kept her smile by clenching her teeth. 

Maurice Migneault’s dark brows furrowed. “Now, Princess—”

She stood, teetering for a moment on her Christian Louboutin slingback pumps. “There’s nothing to worry—”

The magazine fell from her lap in a splat on the cream carpet.

Her daddy glanced down.

Crouching, she plucked the offending item up before stuffing it in the wicker wastebasket, along with the tissue. She took in a deep breath, before popping to her feet again to smile. “There. All cleaned up.”

“I saw the magazine, too.” He grimaced, his hand smoothing across his mustache in a habitual gesture. “I know you’re hurting.”

“I’m not. Not in the least.” The grind of her teeth in her mouth made her think of dusty sand. “It’s been two months since we split.”

Her daddy paced to the pink leather couch her mother gave her when she started the new job. Sagging into the soft seat, he sighed. “I wonder if you’d enjoy taking a trip to Paris.”

She loved Paris. She loved France. The homeland of her grandparents on her father’s side. The narrow lanes of the City of Lights, and the rolling hills of Provence and Grasse, were as much a part of her childhood as the sunny beaches of Star Island, and the humid, bustling streets of Miami. 

“Your mother thought it might do the trick.” Her father gave her a tentative smile. “Shopping always makes you happy.”

A restlessness rustled inside, a feeling she’d never experienced and didn’t appreciate. “I do enjoy shopping.”

“Then, it’s settled.” He clapped his hands together, his smile growing wide. “I’ll let your mother know.”

“But my job.” Her hand waved at the room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the courtyard that was the center of the Migneault perfume factory and office complex. “I just started, so I should probably—”

“No, no.” He gave her his own wave. One of casual indifference. “The job will keep.”

She knew why it would keep. Because she really had done nothing of consequence since she arrived. Nothing more than go through a few reports about the factory’s operations, and looking over the human-resource manual a time or two. Her daddy had been as surprised as she was about the breakup. The only reason this job and this corner office appeared was to help recover her spirits. Doing actual work wasn’t something his princess needed to be concerned with. She only needed to wait until the next prince came around for her hand.

Except she didn’t want any old prince. She wanted Spencer.

Her father slid to a stand, his signature black silk shirt and linen pants as immaculate as ever. “I’ll book the flight for both of you.”

“Didn’t you have an important meeting to attend this afternoon?” 

Memory returned. 

Her dad fussing on the phone to his PA as they drove into work in their family limo. The care he’d taken to stop at the conference room and inspect it to make sure everything was ready. The whispers and murmurs of the staff about a bigwig coming to review a proposal.

Her daddy’s smile fell. His mustache sagged. “It ended early.”

And not well, obviously. She hadn’t spent much time on the job thinking about the company. There’d been too much to think about regarding her lost love and how she was going to get him back. Yet, it hit her that perhaps she should be thinking about something more than herself.

For a change.

“Is there something wrong?” She tried for a compassionate, caring gaze. 

“Not a thing you need to worry your little head about, Princess.” His smile returned, and he ran a hand over the mustache, as if trying to prop it up. “Just think about going to Paris and shopping with your mother.”

After her dad left, Risa drifted to the window to stare at the typical sunshiny day. Even in the rainy season, Florida couldn’t help bringing on the sun. The bright light made her gloom grow darker. Since she’d never experienced anything other than happy and wonderful, she didn’t know what to do about this depression.

Depressed.

She was depressed.

How horrible, and not fair.

Clunking her forehead on the warm glass, she closed her eyes to the light. Her daddy was right. All she needed was a spot of Paris shopping, and some time with her mom. She’d find the perfect outfit and perfect shoes and perfect lingerie, and find a way to win Spencer back when she returned. 

She opened her eyes and stared down at the Migneault courtyard.

Several workers were repairing the walled garden in the center, their hard hats glinting in the sunlight. One worker didn’t wear anything on his head, and his dark hair waved in the soft breeze.

Risa frowned.

Weren’t there rules about construction? She didn’t care about this job. However, she did care about her daddy’s company. If that guy got hurt, he could file a lawsuit. Another worker approached, a hard hat in hand. With a laugh, the disobedient construction guy took it and slapped it on his head.

He was tall. Taller than the others.

And instead of wearing the uniform of a yellow-and-orange vest, jeans, and heavy boots, he had on a simple T-shirt, gym shorts, and flip-flops.

Still, he wore a hat now, and that’s what counted. Giving the guy one last scowl, she turned and surveyed her empty desk. Her dad had some appointment he needed to go to in town this evening, so she might as well leave for home. Mommy would be there, and they could start to plan their trip.

Calling the limo, she picked up her empty briefcase—another present from the parents to honor her new job—and left her office.

The clack clack of computer keys coming from the cubicles lining one wall mixed with the whirr of the espresso machine and chatter from the break room. Migneault Perfumery stood on this spot of Florida coast since her grandfather landed here in his twenties. At the time, the outskirts of Miami hadn’t been developed, and Marcel Migneault got an excellent deal. A deal he’d parlayed into a thriving perfume business that survived his death.

“Ms. Migneault.” A stiff smile accompanied the nod from her father’s chief financial officer as she passed his office. She knew his position, yet couldn’t recall his name. “Have a good night.”

A trickle of guilt centered somewhere in the middle of her chest. It was only a little after three, and the rest of the staff had another two hours or more of work. What was the point though? It wasn’t like her daddy had given her anything to do.

Her jaw tightened, and she kept heading toward the bank of elevators.

Another employee came toward her. This one’s name she remembered. Only because it was ridiculous. She’d called her best sorority buddies, Tina and Sissie, and laughed with them at the absurdity. 

“Ms. Migneault.” Ivan Terriblier looked down his nose at her. “Leaving so soon?”

Sissie and Tina and she took Russian history together, and if she had to cast a modern man into a Russian ruler’s role, this guy would be perfect. Except he wasn’t Russian. He was French. A true Frenchman, hired by her daddy to fulfill the role every perfume company needed.

The nose.

“Are you sick?” said Ivan the Terrible.

“Yes, I am.” Why not? In truth, she was sick. Sick of not having Spencer. Sick of this non-existent job. Sick of her life in general. 

Good grief. How depressing she was.

She sucked in a breath. Going to Paris sounded better and better.

The elevator doors opened. A string of employees, some she barely knew, some she acknowledged with a vague nod, streamed out. 

“After you.” Ivan waved an imperious hand.

Risa stomped in.

All right. She knew what everyone thought of her. She was the spoiled princess who’d snagged a coveted corner office and didn’t do much. For the first month she was on the job, she hadn’t cared, because she was sure Spencer would ride in and save the day. 

During the second month, she hadn’t cared, because she hadn’t cared about much of anything.

Ivan the Terrible stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby. His bald head glistened like he’d oiled it, making her want to roll her eyes. His stiff posture stated his opinion of her dereliction of duty. His grim gaze landed on her again. 

She ignored him, instead, focusing on Paris.

They rode the ten flights down in complete silence.

“Have fun,” he muttered as she paced out of the elevator.

“I will,” she muttered back, not caring that he didn’t hear her retort.

As she strode through the plate-glass front door, into the courtyard, she promised herself. When she returned from Paris, she was getting away from this job as soon as possible. 

Paris. Then, Spencer.

Those were her goals.

* * *

His drive outside of downtown wasn’t a complete waste.

“If you aren’t careful, amigo, you’re going to have a sore foot.” Miguel, a long-time friend of his grandmother’s, grinned. “Watch yourself.”

Hefting a cinder block on his shoulder, Enrique de Molina gave the man a finger. “You’re lucky I came along.”

The crew of three chuckled around them before responding with catcalls.

“Are you saying we couldn’t do this ourselves?” 

“Such a big man, eh, Riq?”

“Only a job for a SEAL, chico?”

Giving them all another finger, he headed for the wall being repaired. After the worthless meeting with Migneault, it was a relief to walk out and find a way to work off his disappointment. He’d hoped for a new project, since the last investment he put together was completed more than a month ago. Perfume sounded intriguing, or so he’d thought until he listened to the presentation, and watched the eyes of the owner and his senior staff. Sì, he was an angel investor, yet that didn’t make him a crazed devotee of any scheme presented to him. 

Quite the opposite.

“Make sure the block is lined up correctly, Riq.” Miguel’s amused voice followed him across the courtyard. “You might be a big guy now, but I remember having to help you all the time when you were younger.”

That got the man another finger. 

Still, in this case, he was correct. At sixteen, Riq had been mean, stupid, and careless. Also skinny and short. Only his grandmother’s influence convinced Miguel to take him on for the summer. Once he caught on, though, he’d become one of the best workers on the crew. The experience prepared him for the most important years of his life.

Years that were over. 

He missed physical labor. He missed putting his body to work and making things happen.

Laying the block on the top of the wall, he stopped to yank off the stupid hard hat Miguel gave him as a tease. Why the hell would a guy need to protect his head when doing such a simple job? He’d worn less on numerous SEAL assignments, which were a whole lot more dangerous.

He shook his hair out, stringing his fingers through the sweaty strands.

“You really need to keep your hat on.”

The female voice came from right behind him, a scolding tone in it that reminded him of his yaya. Riq suppressed a grin, something he did often with his grandmother, and turned.

She was petite.

His gaze dropped. And also stacked.

An irritated, female huff drew his attention back up.

She wore sunglasses, covered with what appeared to be weird symbols. The same shapes and patterns he saw when he and several SEAL buddies went to New Orleans several years ago on a lark and he poked his head into a voodoo shop. Those lark trips were the only time he felt like he belonged anymore and he made sure to schedule at least two a year. He paid the bills for all the guys and, in return, got the feeling of being part of the team once more. 

If only for a few short days.  

Her lips tightened at his continued silence. They were painted so they glimmered in the sunlight, as if asking to be kissed clean. Her blond hair was natural, he took that in with one glance, and her skin, although covered in the gook women tended to like, was fresh and young.

He didn’t glance farther down again, because he’d rather not have to deal with another huff. When Yaya Tibby started huffing it usually led to nagging. He’d learned a lot about women from his grandmother.

“Put the hat back on.” 

He arched his brow at the dictatorial edge in her voice. On a bet, he’d guess her age to be around ten years younger than him, and he rarely listened to anyone’s directions, much less a youngster’s, no matter how stacked they were. “Who says?”

“I’ve read the HR manual and I know the work codes.” She gave him a sniff from her diminutive, upturned nose. “You’re out of compliance.” 

“Am I?” Reluctant amusement bloomed. “Sorry.”

“You need to wear the hat at all times.” 

“Thanks for letting me know.” He lounged on the wall, twirling the hat on one finger.

With another huff, she threw the leather strap of her oh-so-important briefcase over a delicate shoulder. “Fine. Be that way.”

She flounced off.

Now that she wasn’t looking, he could finish his surveillance. She wore a black pencil skirt he figured she thought made her appear important, and classy high heels that made her legs look long. Above, she wore a wispy white cotton shirt that destroyed any attempt at professionalism, since it didn’t conceal the camisole beneath. 

She had a great ass.

Riq grunted in male appreciation.

“Not for you, amigo.” Manuel shuffled to his side, his grin still wide. “That’s prime property.”

Before joining the Marines and turning his life around, he would have taken extreme offense to the suggestion that he wasn’t worthy of something. Anything. Anyone. 

Now? 

Now, he couldn’t care less.

Shrugging, he glanced at the older man. “Just looking. Not interested.”

“That’s good.” 

He focused on the woman once more. A limo eased to a stop at the sidewalk and an eager driver jumped out to open her door.

A sneer slid onto his face.

“Yeah,” Manuel continued. “Like I said, not for you.”

With a flip of her long, blond curls, she wiggled into the car, leaving little to his imagination as far as legs, ass, and tits. 

“Little rich girl, huh?” No way she earned enough money for those clothes and that limo at her age. She either had a wealthy idiot on the leash, or came from money. Both of which deserved only disgust in his book.

“Migneault’s girl. She works here.” The older man gestured toward the squat office building behind them.

Riq turned to look up at the conference room he just left. Maurice Migneault was not what he’d hoped for, or expected. In fairness, he hadn’t fit what the man wanted, either. He’d asked tough questions, hadn’t accepted the cagey answers, and eventually ruffled feathers. The meeting had been short, pointed, and gave him his answer before he strolled out the door. 

A flat no to being an angel for Migneault Perfumery. 

His friend glanced at him, his gaze curious. “Apple of her papa’s eye.”

Having never been the apple of anyone’s eyes, other than maybe his yaya, used to make Riq angry. Now, like so much of life, it rolled right off his back. “Not surprised in the slightest. She must be wearing a thousand dollars worth of clothes and other female crap.”

Which told him where part of Migneault’s overall problem was. The man had other problems on his hands too, but since Riq refused his offer, he didn’t have to worry about it.

The older man chuckled. “How do you know that?”

He knew because he lived in the world of luxury. Lived a life where money was no longer an issue and he could have anything he wanted with a snap of his fingers. Yet, his grandmother didn’t know that. Neither did his family. It wasn’t surprising this man, their friend, knew nothing of what he really was, either.

He shrugged again. “Just keeping up with what the ladies like.”

“You’re good at that, huh, Riq?” He got a slap on his shoulder and another chuckle. “Your grandmother always tells me about your exploits.”

She knew so little of his exploits it was laughable—though if she ever found out, Yaya Tibby would not be laughing. But the likelihood of that was zero. He’d made sure of that. 

“Come on,” he said, turning to the load of cinder blocks. “Let’s finish this job.”

Vi Keeland, Penelope Ward, and Colleen Hoover, these are the stories for you! Includes: Alpha Hero, Beauty and the Beast, enemies to lovers, Virgin Hero, grumpy/sunshine, woman in disguise

A restless, charismatic storyteller with a predator's gaze and a warrior's heart, Cameron Steward prowls through life seeking the next adventure while fleeing the ghosts of his past—until an enigmatic woman steals both his prized ring and his carefully guarded heart.

Wounded war hero Iain McPherson, the brooding Lord of the Isles, struggles with demons from his past until a spirited photographer breaks into his castle sanctuary, challenging him to embrace life, love, and his responsibilities to his Scottish kingdom.

Brilliant but socially awkward billionaire game developer Lorne Ross returns to his ancestral Scottish castle to reclaim his birthright, only to find himself falling hard for the fiercely independent woman who now legally owns it—a woman who challenges everything he thought he wanted and helps him discover what he truly needs.

Beneath his suave casino-owner veneer, Nick Townsend is a man torn between two worlds—his Mexican mother's passionate heritage and his rancher father's unforgiving expectations. To win the game, he must confront his deepest fears and finally lay claim to the love he believes he doesn't deserve.

Chef Luc Miró has perfected every recipe except the one for happiness, until a spirited shopkeeper with a gift for chaos serves him a second chance at love he never thought he'd taste again.

Angel investor Enrique "Riq" de Molina hides his wealth from everyone, and his heart from himself—until a hurricane strands him on his private island with the one woman stubborn enough to break through his barriers.

Beneath her quiet, organized exterior lies a passionate gardener with a burning heart, Jennet Douglas arrives at a Scottish mansion with deception in mind but finds herself torn between family duty and the unexpected love that blooms in the most unlikely of places.

Free-spirited photographer Lilly Graham never stays in one place too long until she confronts a wounded Scottish lord in his castle, and discovers that in helping him heal, she might finally find the home and love she never knew she was searching for.

Hiding behind baggy clothes and a tough exterior, Ceri Olwen has fought for everything she has—including the Scottish castle unexpectedly willed to her. But when the handsome billionaire heir returns to claim his birthright, she finds herself risking the carefully constructed armor around her heart for a chance at true acceptance and love.

Desperately yearning for a place to call home, Jessica McDowell must overcome her lifelong insecurities to claim both her rightful inheritance and the love of a man who sees her magnificence when she can't even see it herself.

Spirited Nina Blanchard believes in fate and second chances, but when she spills the carefully guarded secrets of the grumpy chef across the street, she'll need more than her usual charm to convince him their undeniable chemistry is worth risking his heart for.

When her family's perfumery faces ruin, spoiled but determined Maurisa "Risa" Migneault tracks down a stubborn billionaire to his private island, only to be caught in a hurricane that sweeps away her princess persona and reveals the woman she was always meant to be.

Writing this collection of six romances—three set against the misty, mythic Highlands of Scotland and three drawn from vibrant, fairy-tale-infused settings—has been a deeply personal and imaginative journey for me. Each of these stories is inspired by classic fairy tales, reimagined through a contemporary lens, where emotional depth, sweeping landscapes, and passionate love stories bring the magic to life.

My Scottish trilogy draws from the timeless feel of ancient legends and the literary influences that shaped me early on—from Tolkien’s epic worlds to Charlotte Brontë’s fearless heroines. Brontë, in particular, taught me the power of emotional authenticity and moral strength. That legacy lives in Lion of Caledonia, Lord of the Isles, and Laird of the Highlands—modern fairy tales rooted in independence, inner courage, and hard-won love. Whether it’s a woman finding her fire, a war hero learning to heal, or a shy laird uncovering his worth, these stories speak to transformation and the kind of love that meets you where you are—but refuses to leave you there.

The Knights trilogy carries that same fairy tale thread into more glamorous, high-contrast worlds—from Las Vegas to New Orleans to a private Caribbean island. Each of these stories is its own twist on a classic tale, featuring reluctant modern-day knights and the women who challenge, disarm, and ultimately redeem them. Knight in Cowboy Boots reflects my love for luxury, high-stakes drama, and the thrill of reinvention. Knight in Black Leather channels the dark allure of New Orleans and Mexican folklore, while Knight in Tattooed Armor became my own personal Cinderella story—written as I took the leap into indie publishing and chased a dream of my own.

Though the tone shifts between misty Highlands and neon cities, these six books are united by themes I return to again and again: personal transformation, emotional risk, and the discovery that real love doesn’t just change your life—it reveals who you were meant to be all along.

Whether you’re drawn to a brooding laird or a reluctant knight in flip-flops, I hope these stories sweep you away, make you feel deeply, and remind you that the best fairy tales don’t end with “happily ever after”—they begin with it.

1. Lion of Caledonia*

2. Lord of the Isles*

3. Laird of the Highlands*

4. Knight in Cowboy Boots*

5. Knight in Black Leather*

6. Knight in Tattooed Armor*

*all stories are standalone and can be read in any order

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